


one single thread of gold

by woodswit



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Courtly Love, F/M, Medieval AU, Minor Sansa Stark/Willas Tyrell, Modern AU, Reincarnation, Sansa and Jon are scholars, Sansa is a princess and Jon is a knight, Slow Burn, Soulmates, and also fluffy but also intended to fulfill my need for medieval romance, this is silliness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26194642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodswit/pseuds/woodswit
Summary: Reincarnation/soulmates AU.Historian Sansa Stark goes to Winterfell to focus on her research and forget the things that have happened to her----but meeting Jon Snow brings up other memories, memories that she cannot possibly have, memories that scare her and memories that draw her closer; memories that are impossible.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 463
Kudos: 480
Collections: adventures of the mini cooper





	1. a peach for a story, my lady?

**Author's Note:**

> for those following along, yes sansa has a mini again, it is a fixture now. for those not - don't worry about it!

**Present**

Sansa's mobile is buzzing, again, but she will not pick up. 

She got a brief reprieve from it when she was driving through the Wolfswood earlier—that eerie dark forest, of pewter wood and dark moss, where neither sunlight nor signal could reach her—but now that she's in the open, end-of-August sunshine, it starts up again, because he can't just leave her alone, now that she's out of his reach, can he? Now that she is finally doing something for herself, _now_ he wants to talk. 

She ignores the buzzing mobile the way she might ignore a wasp, hands clenched on the steering wheel as though waiting for the sting, and focuses on the signage for Winterfell, the old castle she will be calling home for the next three months. She doesn't have time to answer her mobile, because Dr. Samwell Tarly, head of the visiting scholar program at Winterfell, is waiting for her, and she has waited all of her academic career to finally see Winterfell. _He_ will not ruin this for her. 

(And she will not let herself fail at this too, on top of everything else she's failed at lately.)

And then abruptly, there it is, and her heart leaps. She crests a hill and Winterfell, craggy and mossy and sprawling, rises up before her, and she no longer has to try to ignore her buzzing mobile because there is a surge of powerful happiness coursing through her veins.

Somewhere in that castle, the clues to her lost princess' fate are waiting. Somewhere in that castle lies the answers to the mystery that has plagued scholars for centuries; the mystery that Sansa has decided she _will_ solve, come hell or high water. The mystery that Sansa, for some reason, feels like belongs to her and her alone. Sansa fumbles with her mobile, dismisses the missed calls, and rings Dr. Tarly. 

"Hello, this is Samwell Tarly," Dr. Tarly answers his mobile, his voice boyish and musical. Sansa bites back a smile. 

"Hi, this is Sansa Stark. I'm just ringing to let you know I'm a few minutes away," she says, squinting in the sunlight at the great old fabled castle, and she hears Dr. Tarly draw in a sharp breath. 

"DR. STARK!" he cries. "Oh, she's here, Gilly, she's here! Alright, we'll be waiting in the scholars' lot for you, and you'll find it on your map. Just follow the road and avoid the hats. You'll see what I mean," Dr. Tarly advises her.

When they ring off, Sansa realises she is still grinning. 

Winterfell is vast. It sits on the highest ridge, its towers jumbled and its walls mossy. Once the seat of Northern Westeros, it has become both a massive tourist attraction and a historical centre alike. Each day, floods of tourists arrive in droves to take one of the many specialised tours throughout the castle and its grounds, to watch period-accurate jousts, to wander the fairs and drink mead and eat meat-on-a-stick; but meanwhile, more quietly, scholars are combing through Winterfell, studying it, trying to piece together its history. 

Sansa drives past the tourist entrance, per Dr. Tarly's instructions: a man in a ruff and tights is boredly issuing day passes to clamoring, sticky-fingered children and their hassled mums and weary dads; by the front entrance, medieval-inspired hats are for sale, some with feathers and some pointed with polyester glittery veils, as well as plastic swords and, mysteriously, fairy wings. She cannot suppress another grin and a quiet laugh, because as a child, she would have loved all of it: she would have desperately wanted both the fairy wings and the pointed hat with the veil, and her brothers and sister would have wanted the swords.

(There would have been tears when Sansa invariably got hit with a plastic sword by accident.)

Sansa pulls into the smallest lot ten minutes later to see a large, round-faced man in a sweater vest and a large hat with a swaying pink feather waiting for her, eagerly waving to her; he is with a shy-looking woman who is wearing one of the princess hats in an exasperated, _well-fine-because-I-love-you_ sort of way. 

"Dr. Stark!" Dr. Tarly explodes the minute Sansa gets out of her Mini. He is pulling the woman—likely his wife and the program's administrator, Gilly—toward her, their shoes crunching on the loose gravel. Sansa's legs are stiff from so many hours of driving, and she tries not to stumble. "Well met, my lady!" he beams, offering a chivalrous, period-accurate bow. "Oh, I'm so excited you're here, you must be starving and exhausted, where's your bags, and oh, I cannot _wait_ to talk to you all about your research focus, it's absolutely the best idea I've heard in years—"

"—Sam," Gilly interrupts gently, "let the poor woman breathe." She offers a sheepish smile to Sansa, and holds out her hand. "I'm Sam's wife, Gilly. You've gotten all the boring emails from me." 

"Nonsense, I found all of them exciting," Sansa promises, and it's true. In spite of the failures of her personal life, she filled out each form with a shaky sort of joy. "I just wanted to say again how grateful I am, Dr. Tarly, for this opportunity," Sansa adds quickly, trying not to gush. 

"Call me Sam, I really don't stand on formality," Sam instructs, peering into her Mini. "Ah, there's your suitcase. Oh, you have no idea how excited I've been! Haven't I, Gilly?" 

Sansa takes her suitcases out of the boot of her car and locks it, and follows Sam and Gilly toward the side gate—this will be the Hunter's Gate, if her memory of Winterfell serves her. Seeing it at last makes all the hairs raise on the back of her neck. 

"You have no idea," Gilly reassures Sansa almost darkly. "He's been talking about you all month. I think Jon's going to murder him." 

"Jon?" Sansa asks. As they pass through the gate, Sansa glimpses the armory, where she guesses a tour is in progress, as a few tourists in khakis and trainers, bearing plastic maps, are trailing about the entrance, shuffling in.

"Oh, that'll be him, actually," Sam says, checking his watch. "Jon's one of our most popular docents. He's a real expert on all things weaponry, and sometimes he fills in for the jousts and duels, when the museum's short on staff. The thing is, now whenever I read about Sir Jon the Dragon, I can't help but picture him," he admits. "Come see."

Sam takes Sansa by the crook of her elbow and leads her to the pointed-arch doorway. Inside is dark, and lit by piercing hi-hat lighting that casts the many glass cases of weapons in high relief. The armory is packed; the tour must be sold-out because the armory simply couldn't hold any more people.

A lean man's back is to them, clad in a careworn field jacket, and he's in the middle of swinging a long sword in a graceful arc. None of the people on the tour notice Sansa, Sam, and Gilly peering in; they watch him with rapt attention—but the docent, Jon, pauses and glances back at them. 

Dark hair pulled into a mussed man-bun; dark eyes and dark stubble; and a look of profound irritation all make Sansa's stomach clench and her face bloom with heat as his dark eyes meet hers. She has a swooping sensation, as though she's missed a step, and her mouth goes dry. There is something utterly familiar about him, so she must have seen him on Winterfell's website at some point, because she is certain she would remember this man if she met him. 

But she can't contemplate it, because Sam is mouthing 'sorry' at Jon, and then slinking hastily out of the armory. "Whoops," Sam breathes as they edge back into the yard. "He _hates_ being interrupted on tour. He's a teddy-bear of a man, I promise, but a bit—" Sam's voice goes high. "—well, a bit crabby, really, until you get to know him." 

"Especially with young women," Gilly puts in, as they wind their way toward one of the keeps. "He gets a lot of unwanted attention, as you might have guessed, with a face like that." 

_Unwanted attention? Ah, so he's gay, then_ , Sansa infers sagely, but she only smiles at Gilly. 

"Never mind that," Sam blusters. "I swear as long as you don't interrupt him like I did, he's gentle enough. And he's worth befriending, Sansa, because Jon would be an excellent resource for you. He's studied Sir Jon the Dragon, and I believe Sir Jon was a contemporary of your lost princess—and the Witch of the Wolfswood, too." 

They reach the entrance to a smaller keep, a pointed-arch door that is painted hunter-green, and Sam unlocks it with a large, old key. "I do so love the connection you've drawn between that princess and the Witch of the Wolfswood," he continues admiringly. "What a concept! And so fresh and feminist, too. It's just what our field needs, really. I always tell people we need more female scholars, because otherwise it's just an old boy's club where we talk about swords all day and miss the important bits. And the idea of the Witch being a Druid is wonderful."

"Well, it explains why the princess' death was never recorded, if she simply disappeared into the woods," Sansa begins, trying to tamp down her excitement at getting to talk to another scholar about her idea. Most people who study this period of Northern history are far more focused on the wars, or on Sir Jon the Dragon—the bastard knight who proved to be a secret Targaryen prince—and very few want to hear about a princess whose existence is a point of contention, or how the Witch of the Wolfswood is more fact than legend. 

(Very few take it seriously, too. And when she tries to tell people that the Witch of the Wolfswood was really just a Druid, she sees their eyes cross and she gives up with a sigh.)

(Sam's excitement at her abstract, and the fact that he personally emailed her immediately, the subject line in all capital letters, told her they would get along famously.)

"Precisely, and it would explain why she was never married off," Sam adds. "Here we are. This is the scholars' keep, as I like to call it. Ooh, let me show—"

"—Sam," Gilly says patiently, as they enter the keep, "why don't we let Sansa get a bit settled? Show her to her flat?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Sam says apologetically. "I'm ever so rude; here, let's take you to your rooms and then we can come up with a plan for the day." 

**Past**

Sansa waits impatiently in her tower, flitting from the bed where she has been reading to the narrow window and back again, like a trapped wasp. She cannot bear it anymore, she is certain. If she has to wait a second longer for Sir Jon, she will simply die. 

The sun is setting and she can hear the chaos outside of her room: the chaos of a feast. She watched the Tyrells arrive earlier, in wheelhouses draped in green and gold. She could hardly see Lady Margaery's features but, she thinks, she walked with the poise of a beautiful girl, and she hopes, desperately, that she is not just beautiful but that she is also sweet. Robb deserves the sweetest lady, and the North deserves the sweetest future queen. 

But where is Sir Jon? He promised he would come as soon as he could, but it has been _hours_. She has reread Florian and Jonquil in its entirety, twice, and though she loves it, there are only so many times—

—A knock on her door, at last! Sansa smoothes her hair and unlocks the door and opens it a crack, more giddily than is strictly ladylike, but she can't help it. 

And there is Sir Jon, waiting for her just like he promised, and she bites her lip to stop herself from beaming at him. He is wearing the fine armor of a royal knight, as well as the dark grey cloak, a grey that is almost precisely the same grey as his eyes. He looks even more impressive and handsome than usual; his armor has been polished in honor of tonight's feast, and he has tamed his wild dark hair and trimmed his beard.

"My lady," he greets with a polite bow. His face is controlled but she can see it in his eyes: he's got a secret, and he's going to share it with her. 

(It has taken years but she has learned to read Sir Jon, and the trick is to look at his eyes. He is the quietest knight, the most private knight, and for years she found him cold and unfeeling, but now she knows better. He is warmer, he is gentler, than any of them.) 

"Enough of that," she whispers, because she is too excited to bother with her manners now, even though she does try to be a lady. "Come in—tell me everything!"

And that's when she sees the sly glimmer in his eyes and realises he is holding a dark bundle. He slips into the room and shuts the door behind him, and Sansa takes a quick step back. "What's that?" 

"This," Sir Jon begins, shaking out the bundle, "is your story, as promised." 

"That's a cloak, not a story. Tell me about Lady Margaery! Tell me about the Tyrells!" she insists in a hiss.

Sir Jon looks maddeningly aloof. 

"Once upon a time," he begins slowly, holding up the cloak, "there was a princess who put on a cloak of invisibility, and slipped into a feast like smoke." 

When she realises his meaning, she sucks in a breath and claps her hands over her mouth. Jon bites his pretty lip as his eyes narrow and he studies her. 

(He has learned, too, to read her.)

"No," she breathes, though she is smiling broadly, more broadly than is princess-like. "Father would kill me, he would kill you—"

"—The King doesn't need to know," Sir Jon says immediately. "I've worked it out: we'll walk past the arches, you'll get a glimpse of the great hall, and then we'll return. All of five minutes, quick as smoke." 

The joy that surges through her is almost intolerable and she feels her eyes and nose burn with the threat of tears. She will see dancing, she will hear music; she will glimpse her brother falling for his future queen.

(And there is grief, too, that she must see these things she longs for in secret, beneath the darkness of an old cloak, but she refuses to let herself grow heartsick now, tonight.)

"Now?" she finally asks, when she has regained control of her voice. Jon nods. 

"Now," he says in a low voice. Though he seems cool and distant as usual, she can see it now in his eyes: he was nervous, she realises; he was hopeful. 

"Sir Jon, this is a gift—"

"—It is no gift, my lady. I still demand the usual payment," he interrupts her. "Put on the cloak." 

Sansa swings it over her shoulders, and her dress of primrose-coloured silk is swallowed by the nighttime-coloured cloak. It smells like Sir Jon's skin, a scent she has come to associate with adventure and with safety, though she cannot imagine how the two can coexist. It is just another one of those strange contradictions of Sir Jon: his flinty grey eyes are warm; his fast hands, which hold a sword with such deadly competence, are always gentle when he leads her along the halls of Winterfell. 

(She cannot think on that now, either.)

"You may have three times your usual payment," Sansa whispers in promise as Sir Jon opens the door and peers out into the darkened hall. Her hands tremble with excitement, and then he is taking her hand in his, the callouses rough against her own fingers, and leading her out of her room. 

They fly on silent feet through the halls. Jon is swift, light-footed, and cautious: he peers round corners, he listens, he checks shadows. The halls are dark save for the flickering braziers, and as they approach the great keep, Sansa feels a knot of anticipation form. She can smell the meat cooking; she can hear the lutes; her eyes are already stinging with the smoke of the great hall. 

And, suddenly, almost too soon—they are here. The great hall overflows with guests, its light golden with a thousand candles, and the walls tremble with the roar of echoing laughter and music. Jon leads her to one of the darkened arches and Sansa grips the wall as she looks into the place she most wants to be, and the place that is most forbidden to her. 

Robb is dancing with Lady Margaery, his face flushed with nervousness and pleasure. He looks so handsome in his fine jerkin and his simple crown, and her heart swells with painful pride. And Lady Margaery is all lithe limbs and an impossible cascade of chestnut ringlets; when she and Robb circle each other, Sansa glimpses doe-like brown eyes and the sweetest smile, and her eyes burn again with tears. 

The others are dancing, too, even Jeyne, and Sansa aches to join them, because she loves dancing nearly as much as she loves stories. 

"Look, there are the three princes," Jon breathes in her ear, his hand at the back of her head, guiding her to look. Even though his touch is separated by her hair and by the hood of the cloak, her skin still tingles at it.

And indeed there are the so-called three princes of Highgarden, though they are not truly princes in title. They are princes in appearance, though: three brothers with chestnut hair just like their sister's, with smooth skin and bright eyes. One is older, and broad and roguish as Robb; that must be Garlan, according to Sir Jon's stories. Another is slender and gallant, with a quick sharp jaw and a pretty mouth; that must be Loras. And the third brother seems shy and scholarly, in his velvet doublet and his doubtful mouth; that must be Willas, the crippled one, though from here she cannot see his illness, and finds him as handsome as his brothers.

It is all too much—the music, the dancing, the happiness and the envy; even, perhaps, Sir Jon's hand on her—and then she hears it. "My lady," Jon breathes, sounding dark, and Sansa looks down. 

Oh, no.

It's happening again.

She forgot herself. Vines are seeping between stones; little rosy flowers are blooming before her eyes, sprouting between her feet and through her fingers on the wall. "We've got to go," he hisses, and then he is gripping her arm and pulling her away from the feast. 

No, no. She doesn't want to go. Everything is crumbling and crashing down around her as Sansa follows Jon through the dark halls. The night has changed: her joy has fled. She is empty as a barren garden, dark as rocks on the shoreline. A lump forms in her throat and she does not know if it is rage or despair, or some mix. She numbly allows herself to be pulled along by Sir Jon; she also lets tears slip down her cheeks. 

When they are in her tower again, she cannot face him. She pulls the hood back down and goes to the window, where blue and purple flowers were growing earlier in her anticipation. She touches the stone and looks out at the Wolfswood, which still is green and lush with the end of summer. 

"My lady," Jon begins, "forgive me." 

She wants to turn to him, to reassure him, but she does not want him to read her despair on her face. She stares out the window and tries, desperately, to master herself. 

"There's nothing to forgive," she says thickly, and she grips the stone and clenches her teeth, trying to stifle the urge to cry. "That was the most joy I have felt in so long."

Her voice is flat even to her own ears. She hears Sir Jon draw in a breath, and when she looks down, the flowers she grew earlier in her joy, while she waited, are withered and blackened with her despair. "I suppose it is just—I miss dancing. I miss music. I miss—I miss—" She does not know how to put it into words. It was something in the look between her brother and Margaery; something in the beauty of Loras Tyrell; something in the feel of Jon's hand on the back of her neck. "I miss the feeling of having a future," she finally admits, and the darkness comes forward. "Am I to live out the rest of my years in this tower, waiting for scraps of life?" 

Sir Jon says nothing, and when she looks at him, he is staring mutinously into her fire. 

"If anyone found out about what you do, my lady, the world would turn in on itself with war," Jon says quietly at last. The flames are reflected in his silver eyes. "You know this." 

"It's not fair," she whispers, and he shakes his head. 

"I did not make the rules," he says softly. He looks up and his eyes take in her tear-streaked cheeks. "I have done you a disservice, tonight," he begins, aghast. "I should have seen it—"

"—No." She goes to him and grabs his hands in hers, even though it is far too forward; she cannot bear Sir Jon's pain. "You have given me a gift. A pure, perfect rose." 

"A rose with thorns," he muses, shaking his head. "I may have given you happiness but I have hurt you all the same." 

She lets go of his hands and they turn from each other. His payment waits on a low table by her bed: a basketful of peaches from the glass gardens, though it is far too late for peaches. 

(This is their tradition; this is how she won Sir Jon at last.) 

(In the beginning, when her father first decided to entrust her safety to one of the knights, she despaired that it was Sir Jon. Cold and aloof, private and terse, he would walk her through the castle halls in silence. Every personal question she lobbed at him landed far from him like arrows missing their targets, glancing off his armor.) 

(It was only two years later, when she finally, wildly, demanded that he tell her a story that she made any progress at all.

 _'I'll give you a peach,'_ she promised him the first time, before he knew of her gift. He had scoffed at her.

 _'There are no peaches now; it is winter,'_ he had said so coolly, but when she had given him a peach the very next day, there had been a new light in those cool grey eyes, and he had awkwardly forced out a story, the words stilted and unsure, and she had watched him eat the peach and he had watched her watch him, and the next day, he was ready with a story.) 

"Will you attend the feast?" she asks when her voice is controlled again. She lifts a peach from the basket and turns back to him. 

"Aye, I must show my face," Jon says, but his voice is hard. He does not want to go.

He takes the peach from her, their fingers brushing. "I will make it up to you with a better story, tomorrow," he promises, studying the flush of the peach. "And the day after that, and the day after that. Knights cannot marry either, my lady." 

(As usual he has seen the root of her despair as easily as he sees the velvety flush of the peach.) 

"So you will be with me forever," she says, and she means it to be teasing but it does not sound like teasing, and it is too late to fix it now. The light from the hearth edges him in gold; his armor gleams. Maids will look at him longingly, of course, and there is a secret, wild part of her, as thorny as the roses in the garden, that hates those faceless girls. She watches his thumb move over the skin of the peach, testing its ripeness. Sir Jon raises his gaze from the peach to her eyes, and for some reason, she suddenly cannot quite draw in a breath. 

"Aye, I will," he says evenly. 

The door closes and when Sansa turns back to her window, the flowers have come back to life. 

**Present**

Sansa stands in the room that will be home for the next three months, and turns off her mobile before it can buzz again. She leaves her suitcases in the middle of the room and walks to the window. The Wolfswood is barren and grey, rising up in the distance like smoke, but a noise down below draws her gaze. 

The tour has ended, and the group is dispersing. The crabby docent, Jon, is lingering by the entrance to the armory, talking to an elderly woman who has the plain, absentminded appearance of an old academic. He is listening intently to her, nodding, but he abruptly looks up, as though someone has called his name, and then, all of a sudden, he is looking directly at her window. 

Sansa steps back from view as though stung, as though caught. 


	2. a rose in the wall

**Past**

Sansa knows she is supposed to stay in her tower, to wait for Sir Jon to come by and escort her if she wants to go anywhere. The Tyrells are still here, after all—the danger still lurks. But it is before dawn, she reasons, and none of the Tyrells will be awake, and her garden is not part of the great keep, anyway. No one will walk by it, and she needs to be in the fresh air, among the flowers and the vines. 

Her little tower cannot contain her joy alone; her little tower cannot hold her thoughts of Sir Jon. 

She dresses in cool, celery-green silk and pulls his cloak about her shoulders, for he left it in her tower by accident and now it belongs to her. Sir Jon has never embraced her—his touch has always been a guiding hand at her back; a grip on her wrist; a gentle touch at the back of her head—but she imagines now how it might feel as she hugs the cloak to herself and slips out of her tower. The fabric is rough but warm, and the scent of his skin still lingers. As she darts along the corridors to her garden, she imagines a world in which Sir Jon's arms may circle her. 

(Those arms did, once, encircle her, but she was asleep for it. She had fallen asleep in her garden, reading of Prince Aemon, and Sir Jon was the one to find her and carry her back to her tower. She only knows this because she stirred just as he set her on her bed, and she is now unsure of whether she dreamed or felt the rasp of his beard against her forehead in a kiss as gentle and private as might happen between lovers. Would he ever be so bold as to kiss a princess? At the time she had dismissed it, for Sir Jon was still so cold to her, so unyielding, but now...) 

Sansa bursts into her garden. In the pre-dawn everything is lavender, and drenched in mist, but the summer's final flowers are vivid even in the morning, and when she drops down by the fountain, they turn even more lush and bright. 

She used to be able to control it, though it always was hard. When her gift first became apparent, enormous vines would burst from walls when she felt things were unfair; flowers the size of dinner plates would spontaneously blossom when she received a new gown that she loved; all the roses in the garden withered when she read a tragedy. Her father, the king, would spend hours with her, teaching her to master her emotions, until even the brightest joy could do no more than perhaps brighten the grass beneath her feet.

But then the word started to spread—from maid to cook, from cook to merchant, from merchant to merchant—and her control no longer mattered. Strange guests began to announce themselves at the castle, and her father, such a shrewd man and such a cautious one, too, knew that he alone must make the hard choice. 

And so her life was stripped from her. No friends could see her, no princes could suit her; she would attend no feasts and dance to no lutes. She could not even live with her family, lest one of their servants realise her gifts. And Sansa, miserable and isolated, stopped caring for whether she could control her gifts. And all the while her powers grew and grew, until she could walk into the glass gardens and stand by the peach tree and fill it with fully-grown, ripe peaches with nothing more than a wish and a caress. 

Nothing soothed her misery and loneliness until Sir Jon and his stories. At first he had seemed like yet another punishment, with his icy manners and disdainful gaze. But now, shivering in the damp dawn surrounded by flowers that bloom for her joy, Sansa wants to laugh at her own folly. 

She has spent all night thinking of him: of his promise, of the glint in his eyes, of the feel of his fingertips at the back of her head. But those sweet thoughts are tinged with something else, something hot and uncertain, that coils like gold deep within her. She has only vague understanding of what happens between men and women—cobbled together from rumors and half-truths and whispered gossip, and perhaps a few glimpses of the act when she was younger and the feasts were more wild—but somehow, she now knows. 

Oh, she doesn't know the details, but they don't seem to matter. What she does know is that she wants to feel the rasp of Sir Jon's beard against her skin again; she wants those calloused fingers to graze the inside of her forearm, the bare curve of her waist, the tips of her breasts; she wants to bury herself in his scent and in turn she wants him to bury himself in her. And these are the thoughts which her little tower cannot contain, for her little tower was meant for a sweet child and these are not the thoughts of a sweet child. 

"There you are." 

She looks up; roses of the colours of sunset are unfurling around her when she sees Sir Jon standing in the archway. 

He looks different without his armor. He is dressed simply, in dark colors, and though he looks so handsome and heroic in his armor, she thinks she prefers him like this. He is all lean grace and smooth skin; the only sign of his violent profession is the sword belt at his hip. His grey eyes take in the roses blooming around her, quite out of place as they crawl up the side of the fountain. "No peach? Then I suppose you don't want a story," he observes, coming to sit beside her at the fountain's edge.

He picks a rose from the vine and toys with it absently, studying its petals. "You seem happy, my lady." He still studies the rose. "I did not expect to find you happy this morning, after last night." 

Her joy only briefly falters. What does she need with feasts, with dancing, with Highgarden princes, when in exchange for all of that, she can have Sir Jon forever? She feels foolish for her misery last night. She would give up whatever silly joys—oh, even books and fine dresses—if it meant she could have Sir Jon. 

She must stand and turn from him, because she is trembling with those strange thoughts, and she does not know what effect they might have on the flora around her. She paces along the stone path, feeling Sir Jon's gaze on her the whole way. 

"Did you ever carry me?" she asks suddenly, pausing by one of the high walls of the garden. A frieze of a wolf's face looks out from its centre, and she brushes her fingertips along it, watching moss form in its open jaw. "From this garden, I mean. I was remembering the strangest dream..." 

She turns in time to see Sir Jon's throat move as he swallows. But he returns her gaze almost defiantly. 

"Aye," he says after a moment. "You fell asleep reading, my lady, and I did not want to wake you. That was long ago, though. Why do you think of it now?" 

Sansa's hand lingers on the wall as she stares at him, and gooseflesh ripples along her skin. She has never been bold—she has always been quiet and gentle, so quiet and gentle that the irony of her being the one of her siblings to need imprisonment has always held a cruel humor. But Sir Jon's cloak smells like safety and adventure, protection and wildness, so she keeps going.

"Did you kiss my forehead that day?" She has learned to read him so she sees how something in his eyes changes. _Heat_ , she thinks. He rises to his feet with his quick grace that she has come to know, and approaches her cautiously. Not cautiously, perhaps, but he does so with care. Like she is a doe he might spook, and she thinks, _hunter_ , as he reaches her. 

"My lady, such an action would end me," he says quietly, when he is no more than an arm's length from her. "I would never," he adds simply. 

"I must have dreamt it," she says, though it is a struggle to speak, to even breathe. And she wants to feel the rasp of his beard against her skin so terribly, so powerfully, that she is certain she could keep every leafy tree in the Wolfswood verdant and vibrant all winter long with her desire. "Or perhaps I wished it," she adds quickly, a whisper, and she watches Sir Jon's shoulders drop as he lets out a slow breath. 

"You would have me end myself—for a kiss?" he breathes. Even the word _kiss_ is more lovely from his lips, but more dangerous, too, like a forbidden spell got from a witch deep in the forest. 

"Would it not be a beginning?" she counters. And then she sees the longing in his eyes, and she thinks of that first peach she gave him; she thinks of his cool gaze meeting hers for so many years before she came to understand him, to know him, and she realises now that there was always heat behind that ice. She has been such a fool not to see it, to believe that it was only the promise of peaches that made Sir Jon warm to her. She thinks of all the years that came before that, when Jon was a mere squire and their eyes would accidentally meet at tourneys, at feasts, and he would look away so hastily, so rudely. 

"My lady," he warns, shaking his head, looking toward the wall. Roses have overtaken the wall, blooming out from where her hand rests against it, and overtaking the stone wolf. The blossoms are just the same colours as the peaches she gives him, the softest palest gold with a blush of vibrant crimson, and the air is heady with the scent of roses. 

Does he not realise, does he not see—

"My goodness." 

Sansa steps back as though shocked; Sir Jon's hands go to his sword. They look to the archway, and see three Highgarden princes standing there, staring at them, at the vines still twining about the stone, the roses still blooming, moving from spring to summer in a manner of seconds. 

Her secret is out.

 **Present**

Sansa wakes early, before her alarm, as though something has awoken her. But when she sits up in the lumpy bed, her flat is silent. It is just before dawn, and for a moment, the modern trappings of the flat—the tiny, add-on kitchenette; the electric lamps; the mint-green suitcases she brought—fade and she can almost imagine she is thrown back hundreds of years, to the times of knights and maidens, and with a burst of happiness she throws back the covers and gets up. 

The world outside is all mist and fog. Sansa has always loved autumn best, and autumn comes faster here in the north. Back in the south, it will be another month or two before she has any need for her jumpers and jackets, but here, there's already a damp chill in the air. She moves to open her window and let in some of that brisk air, and she sees him again: the docent, Jon, is stalking past, laden with gardening tools and clad in boots and that same field jacket. Even though it's so early, there is an energy to him; he seems to be on the hunt for something. 

Before she can even think on what she's doing, she dresses in jeans and galoshes, and chooses a rose-coloured field jacket of her own. She _will_ win him over, she resolves, pulling her hair back in a ponytail.

The air is brisk when she locks the hunter-green door behind her. She carries her fine leather notebook for noting any observations on her walk, and after consulting her map of Winterfell and the direction in which she saw Jon walk, she sets off toward the gardens. 

Winterfell sleeps around her like Aurora's enchanted castle, the gravel crunching beneath her rubber boots. At Winterfell's centre, the great keep has been lovingly and carefully restored, but as she works her way to its edges, time is more evident. Towers stand broken or missing, with only their mossy foundations remaining, and in the distance, the jagged, barren treetops of the Wolfswood loom. It's hard to know what these parts of the castle were used for; Jon must be digging for more evidence, so early in the morning. 

She walks along the crumbling stone arches, and the garden flashes in and out of view, all wild roses and stalks of lavender, and that's when she sees him—

—and when he sees her, too. 

Jon is kneeling in the dirt by one crumbling wall, and his gaze shoots up at her. There's a smudge of dirt on his cheek, just above his stubble, but even like this, muddy and mussed and dressed so plainly, he is a remarkable-looking man. _Sir Jon the Dragon,_ Sansa thinks. Samwell is right; with his short beard and dark hair pulled back, he could look like a knight. And Gilly, too, must be right—he must be very, very tired of fending off unwanted attention from women. Sansa will have to be very careful to make it clear she has no interest in him. Her desire to win him over is academic. 

He rises up from his crouch, brushing the dirt from his hands. 

"Hi," he begins slowly, and acidly—the way Sansa might say _hi_ to a man standing too-close on the underground, or a too-eager salesperson. Her first instinct is to turn tail and flee, but Sansa has always taken pride in winning people over, and she will find a way to get through to this grumpy, rude man.

"You must be Jon," Sansa says bravely, stepping into the garden. She offers a polite wave. "Sorry to bother you, I'm just having a walk. I'm Sansa—"

"—Oh," Jon realises, and he looks annoyed. "You're Dr. Stark, right?" His words curl in on themselves with the faintest northern accent, making him seem even more unfriendly and foreign to her.

"I heard that Dr. Tarly mentioned me a few times," she admits with a wince, hoping it is charming. "Sorry about that. You must be tired of me already." 

Jon has an odd, almost stricken look on his face, and Sansa supposes this is what Sam meant by his crabbiness. He looks unsettled by her; he looks as wary as a deer she has stumbled upon in the forest. But he's not running from her, screaming, yet, or attacking her with his shovel, so she decides to press on. Most academics are simply awkward, she's learned, especially the male ones. Maybe that's all it is. She just needs to prove she's here to learn from him, not to date him, and then he'll open up. "He told me you know a lot about Winterfell, and I was hoping to learn from you. I'm studying—"

"—He told me," he interrupts. He absently kicks aside a dug-up rosebush. "You're studying the Druid of the Wolfswood." 

"That's right. And the lost princess," she adds, stepping further into the garden, encouraged by his words if not his demeanor.

(He calls her _druid,_ not _witch,_ too, just as Sansa does. Sansa does not know what to make of this man.)

The garden walls are still high, in spite of the centuries, and at the garden's centre is a crumbling stone circle; the remains of a pool or fountain. The scent of the last of the summer roses is heady in the wet dawn as Sansa circles the fountain, trying to imagine it with lilies and green water. "Have you found anything interesting here?" she decides to ask, looking back at Jon, thinking of how engaged he seemed with that elderly woman yesterday. 

But Jon is pressing on his chest, still looking as though he's taken a sharp hit to the chest, just above his heart. He looks almost winded, he looks gutted. "Are you alright?" 

"Yeah, fine," he dismisses roughly, clearing his throat and dropping his hand, though he still looks unsettled. "I've not found much," he admits. "Except this." 

He gestures for her to come closer—she ignores the sense of victory—and pulls aside a drape of vines, which _scritch_ against the stone, to reveal a frieze of a wolf. 

"Looks later than the rest of the castle," Sansa says, thinking, "perhaps three or four hundred years later than the main keep," and Jon looks at her sharply, dropping the vines. 

"Yeah, exactly," he says slowly. "You know your stuff." 

It's silly, but she has to bite her lip to hide her pride. She has always been a good student. And, too, she has always enjoyed winning people over; the more difficult, the better, and Jon is a challenge. Sansa focuses on the wall, studying the peachy roses. 

"I suppose it was built for someone in particular," she surmises, focusing on the roses. "It seems like a gift, like a tribute, almost."

And that's when it happens. 

She reaches out, absently, to pluck a rose from the wall.

At first she only feels the lush velvet of the petal and the smooth stem; then something flashes before her, too fast to understand: a rose, a peach, a knight; warm grey eyes; then soft brown ones, sweet as a fawn's; a surge of despair and then one of a joy so powerful that she can only stumble back from the rose. A cage made of roses; the gleaming flash of a blade; burning braziers and a dance; the softest brush of lips against her forehead.

"Are you alright?" Jon asks now, as Sansa shakes her hand, staring at the rose.

When she looks down, a bead of ruby is blooming on her fingertip. "Shit, here," he mutters, and he takes the hem of his tee shirt, grabs her hand, and bunches the fabric around it. Her wrist tingles where he grips it with his rough hands. The shirt is warm from the skin of his abdomen, and the motion pulls her close—

—so that she looks directly into warm grey eyes.

Just like what the rose showed her.

This close she can see the softness of his lashes, the faint white line of a scar over his brow. Those warm grey eyes dart over her face as though searching for something. 

Jon drops her hand hastily. He clears his throat again, and licks his lips. There is a blossom of blood on the hem of his shirt. 

"Thanks," she forces out. She feels a flush creeping along her neck, and she looks back at that rose. Her heart is pounding. She reaches out a shaking hand to touch it again, and scrunches her eyes shut, waiting for it—but nothing happens. Her fingertips brush its cool velvet petals, and she sees nothing. "Odd," she says in a shaking voice, withdrawing her hand. Her fingertip is still bleeding. "I, um, thought it shocked me or something," she lies hastily. She is as unsettled as Jon looks, and when she dips her finger into her mouth to suck away the blood, he looks away quickly. 

He is pressing a hand over his heart again, looking puzzled, and he stares at the rose that pricked her. "Anyway," she says wildly, because the silence is strange and she feels clumsy and out of sorts, the sort of disorientation when you're on an unmoving train and another train's passing can trick you into thinking yours is moving, "I'll be here all autumn, so hopefully we can catch up. I'd love to hear your thoughts." 

And before he can say anything, she is turning on her heel and hastening out of the garden, her heart pounding and her fingertip stinging, not sure if she should be holding onto those strange images in her head or letting them go.


	3. a case of the vapors

**Present**

"Sansa! Sansa! Sansa!" 

One week after gardengate, Sansa finds herself being chased down by Sam on her morning walk in the Winterfell godswood. 

She's never been one for getting herself muddy, but the last week—and all of its worries—has propelled her here, and she finds herself seeking the godswood's soothing power each morning. The godswood's trees are ancient, knobby, and white as bone, with roots tangled like fingers in lush moss, and the air winks and shimmers like gold with the falling yellow leaves. Everything smells like loam and salt from the little pools that slip between the trees. She didn't know that nature could soothe her like this, but her pull to this place was almost instinct.

(She will have to tell Arya about this new development. Arya will riot about all of the missed years of hiking they could have had together.)

Sam is wearing a large straw sunhat and what she is coming to know as his trademark sweater vest (he's worn a different one each day this week), and his round face is shining with exertion and excitement. "Oh, I thought I'd find you here. Gilly said she noticed you've been going on walks every morning, and I told her, this is _just_ the sort of place Sansa would like!" 

He stumbles to a halt in front of her, breathing heavily, and takes off his hat to fan himself with it. In spite of her low mood this morning, Sansa finds herself smiling, and she stows her mobile quickly in the pocket of her field jacket, where it buzzes yet again with another text she will not answer. 

"This godswood is incredible," she says, putting the text out of her mind, gesturing around them. "It's the perfect place to think about research," she adds, and Sam beams. 

"I myself prefer to think on my research with tea and biscuits and a fire," he admits, "but you're just like Jon. He's always walking and thinking—which reminds me! The whole reason I came to find you," he continues eagerly, "is that I'd like you to meet the museum docents and curators today, before the tours officially start. Everyone's here today, and they're all dying to meet you, of course."

Sansa hesitates. For one thing, she wasn't planning on running into anyone, and she's got no makeup on, not to mention she's quite muddy and sweaty. For another, she doesn't feel quite herself this morning, and she's not sure how well she'll be able to rally and put on her charming face. But Sam looks so hopeful...

Perhaps meeting a bunch of new people is just what she needs to take her mind off of things. 

"I'd love that," she says at last, and Sam gallantly offers her his elbow. 

"Brilliant. Now then, are you attending the joust today?" he asks briskly, as they walk together back towards the castle. "You _really_ should. Jon'll be filling in today, and he's quite good. He said you two haven't met—he dropped and broke a _very_ important urn when I asked him; he's been _so_ tetchy lately—so perhaps we can sneak in a moment of his time this morning while he's getting ready. Renly always helps him with his armor, and we can catch him then." 

Sam winces before continuing. "Renly's lovely, but he talks up a storm and he deliberately trolls Jon. We might need to pop in anyway to make sure Jon doesn't kill him."

 _Haven't met?_ So he lied, then. Sansa wonders why he would lie about whether they had met—it's not like _he_ had that strange thing overcome him in the garden. That was just her.

(Right?)

"We haven't really met," Sansa agrees after a moment. "And I'd love to see the joust—somehow I've never actually seen a proper reenactment." 

"You'll love it, the actors are all quite well-trained, and really take pride..." 

After a week together, Sansa has learned that Sam can talk quite a bit, and doesn't always require a response. He rambles on excitedly, gesturing wildly with his free hand, as Sansa tries not to think about what happened in the garden when she met Jon. She has researched the episode and the symptoms endlessly, and is beginning to feel a bit mad. There's no explanation for what happened—at least, not one driven by science—so the only options are that she has some sort of horrible, inoperable brain tumor (lovely) or that it was a strange fluke brought on by her body's severe reaction to all of the drastic changes she has experienced in the last month. 

In other words, it's cancer or stress. _Just fine!_

And then, of course, there's the matter of her mobile, and the texts she has been receiving, but she can't think about that, either. As a result, she's been burying herself in her work all week. Her flat now resembles a war room, with all of her sources spread out on the kitchenette table, or pinned to the wall with her elaborate colour-coding schemes. Arya, with her sixth sense for Sansa's propensity to overwork herself, has been texting her nightly, around midnight, in all caps, ordering her to _GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP_. 

All in all she feels a bit like she's been trapped in a cage with two very dangerous animals and is doing her best to ignore both of them; and even her legendary dissociation skills (her daydreaming is a defense mechanism, not a waste of time, and she will die on this hill) cannot quite save her. 

"...And the thing is, Edd's really not _actually_ depressed, he's just an intellectual," Sam is saying indignantly as they reach the scholar's keep. He checks his watch as Sansa wonders who Edd is. "Ah, brilliant, we're bang-on time to catch Jon and Renly. Come on." 

He pulls Sansa toward the armory, straightening his straw hat. "After you, my lady," he says graciously, as the armory door swings open. 

"...just so completely stupid," a smooth, cultured voice is complaining. There's a loud clang. "Like, she is way too old to play the queen of love and beauty; I'm sorry, but it's just over. And honestly, why do we need a _woman_ to play the queen of love and beauty, anyway? These days, it could be anyone. We could have Satin do it! He'd love that." 

Jon is standing in the middle of the armory, holding his arms out, and a shockingly handsome man clad in dark jeans and a cashmere jumper—Sansa has the impression of bright blue eyes, chiseled jaw, and roguish dark hair—is buckling him into armor. 

This must be Renly, because Jon looks even crabbier than usual. 

Pieces of armor are scattered around them and strewn along a low bench; a buxom woman in period dress with clever eyes is slumped amid the mess, crunching on popcorn as she watches them. She's got a tavern wench's costume on that she is spilling out of, and she shoots Sansa a coy, intrigued smile. "Well, hello, you're adorable," Renly announces, stepping back from Jon to regard Sansa with interest. "You're our new scholar?"

"Everyone, this is Dr. Sansa Stark," Sam informs them proudly, stepping back to showcase her as though he has made Sansa himself. In spite of herself, Sansa feels her face flushing under the weight of their combined gazes. "She'll be here until December, studying the connection between the lost princess and the Witch of the Wolfswood. Sansa, this is Renly, one of our primary curators; this is Myranda, who works in the tavern; and this is Jon, one of our docents." 

"That is an extremely cool research subject," Renly says, and he seems genuinely delighted. "I'll have to show you around the crown jewels later—" 

(Myranda sniggers loudly into her popcorn, and Renly throws back his head and roars with laughter; Jon scowls at the wall.) "Oh my gosh, Myranda," Renly teases, "please get ahold of yourself, it's not even nine in the morning." 

Sam seems uneasy at the inappropriate humor, and wrings his straw hat while laughing nervously. 

"Well, I do expect you all to be resources for Dr. Stark," he says now, and Renly gives a flippant scoff before going back to buckling Jon into his armor. 

"Please. I have been waiting for, like, only ten thousand years for someone to come and ask me about the princesses of Winterfell," he says, before narrowing his eyes at Jon's breastplate. "Does that feel alright?" 

"It's a little loose," Jon says, and Renly nods, now intently focused on the armor. 

"Knew it was off," he mutters.

"Renly knows everything there is to know about armor," Myranda informs Sansa from her place on the bench, "and so does Jon." She grins. "I'm just here for the show." 

"Oh, are you staying for the joust too, then?" Sam asks eagerly, and Renly snorts but says nothing. 

"No, for this one," Myranda says, tipping her box of popcorn at Renly and Jon. "It's so erotic. The tasset's the hottest part—Renly gets on his knees in front of Jon to put it on." 

Sam flushes beet-red; Jon rolls his eyes before looking coldly at Myranda.

"That's really awfully inappropriate, Myranda," Sam is scolding, and he launches into a philosophical definition of workplace harassment and how Myranda has made this a hostile work environment for Jon, but Renly is jerking his chin for Sansa to join them, so Sansa abandons Sam and Myranda after a worried look at the two of them. 

When she approaches Jon and Renly, she is cautious of how she meets Jon's eyes. It's a glancing blow; their eyes meet and they each look away hastily. Renly's bright blue eyes takes this in—Sansa can see a flash of intrigue in them—but he, thankfully, doesn't comment on it. 

"Check this out," he says. "You'll appreciate this. This suit is modeled after one that dates to around the time of Sir Jon the Dragon." 

"Just around the time of the lost princess. It's beautiful," Sansa admits, as Renly draws her attention to the gorget, which is decorated with the Wolf of Winterfell, the royal family's insignia. She sees Jon's throat move as he swallows, and then he clears his throat just as she realises how close she has stepped to admire the gorget. 

Sansa looks up and their eyes meet again in that quick, stolen look. Awareness between them fills the armory like strong perfume; she does not know why Jon lied about having met her but now she knows that he lied, and he knows that she knows, and she knows that he knows that she knows, and now it's a _thing,_ and she doesn't even really know why it's a _thing_ because they have barely interacted. "It's, um, nice of you to volunteer for this," she says now, vaguely directing her words at Jon. 

Jon looks at the floor and shrugs, the armor clanking slightly. 

"Jon is socially awkward, don't mind him," Renly says matter-of-factly. "He's practically a meme at this point." And then he grins. "And you know what, I also love that he volunteers for this, because he totally looks like Sir Jon the Dragon, and this is the kind of kismet I need in my life," he confides to Sansa. "Doesn't he?" 

"Sir Jon was a Targaryen; he would have had light hair," Jon says in exasperation—they have clearly had this argument before—but there is a vehement edge to his voice. 

"Uh, _no_ , he wouldn't've, because he was a knight in that court for _how many years_ before anyone figured out who he was?" Renly points out, giving Jon a little shove. "Everyone was on the lookout for little silvery-blond boys and nobody found out who Sir Jon really was for years. He totally had dark hair, and you can't change my mind." 

"Do you not want to be Sir Jon the Dragon?" Sansa asks Jon now. 

"Ooh, new girl's an empath," Renly observes. Jon shoots Renly a look before braving eye contact with her again (it seems to cost him something). 

"He's overstudied," Jon explains bluntly, "and every scholar who studies him is a little too concerned with the purity of his Targaryen blood. I want no parts of that." 

"Ugh, you are literally the most boring man alive, I don't even care how handsome you are," Renly groans, turning away to grab something from a shelf. Sansa meets Jon's eyes again. 

"Well, I'm boring too," she says carefully, "because I feel the same way. The academic obsession with the Targaryens is really unsettling." 

The armory door swings shut, and Sansa vaguely registers that Sam and Myranda have left. "You could be Symeon Star-Eyes," Sansa points out, just for something to say. "He doesn't get nearly enough recognition." 

"He's also just a story—Sir Jon the Dragon is _history,_ " Renly points out from the shelf he's standing at. 

"Yes, but I like stories," Sansa says. Jon looks at her sharply, and Sansa bites her lip. "They're often based on truth," she adds, "and besides, so much of northern history was recorded by bards, through stories and songs. You can't ignore the fairytales if you want to understand northern history. That's why we're all here, at Winterfell—to dig up history, because it wasn't recorded the way it was in the south." 

"Well-played," Renly observes, coming back with the tasset of Jon's armor. But Jon is still staring at her, his breath quick and tight—the armor must be hard to breathe in. 

Jon meets her eyes as Renly buckles him into the tasset—and for a moment the world sways and spins. She feels Jon reach out and grab her, quick as lightning, by her wrist. His hands are strong and calloused; his grip is rough but familiar. "Oh, gosh, sorry," she stammers, righting herself and shuddering, as Jon drops her wrist as though burned. Her skin tingles where Jon grabbed her, even if two layers of fabric separate their skin. They each look away hastily as Sansa rubs her wrist and tries not to think about the blossom of her blood on his shirt from last week, and all that preceded it. "I think that's a sign that I need some coffee and breakfast," she says, embarrassed and awkward. 

"It's alright, I also get the vapors when I see Jon in his armor," Renly jokes, but he rises from the ground and gives Sansa a friendly nudge. "Go get some food and we'll see you on the grounds. Come find me and sit with me." 

Sansa promises to find him, and flees the armory. Once she's back in the sunshine, she greedily gulps in the fresh air, and leans against the stone wall of the armory. _Don't worry,_ she tells herself, mock-optimistically, i _t's only either some horrible, incurable medical condition, or stress!_ _You're not losing your mind._

"Sansa! Are you joining us?" Gilly is leaving the scholar's keep, wearing the princess hat from the day of Sansa's arrival, and an olive green hoodie and jeans. Her eyes narrow when she gets closer. "Are you alright? You look ill," she says curiously, peering at Sansa, and Sansa waves her off. 

"Yes, I'm fine; I just got a bit dizzy. I'll just get some breakfast before I join you at the joust," she promises hastily, with a bright smile. Her mobile buzzes again, insistently, in her pocket. 

Gilly doesn't look appeased, but she doesn't say anything more, and Sansa is relieved when she continues on. 

* * *

Sansa finds Renly in the wooden stands at ten o'clock, wearing a large, plastic gold crown as naturally as if it were a beanie. The stands are jam-packed with spectators that smell like sunblock, beer, and grass, and she has to squeeze past several clumps of children to reach him. 

"All better?" Renly shouts over the screams of two arguing little girls fighting over a toy as Sansa sits next to him. There's an ominous ripping sound, followed by loud wails.

"Yes, thank you," she calls back. 

They're in the second row, and Sansa is struck by how close it is to the dirt path and wooden divider. It smells more like horses down here. Someone jostles Sansa and for a moment she thinks it's her mobile vibrating in her pocket, but then she remembers that she decided, on impulse, to leave her mobile in her flat so she would stop looking at it. 

The texts that she got this morning—the texts that drove her to flee to the godswood—come back to her now, and she grips the edge of the bench as she tries not to think about them. 

_I miss you._

_I love you._

_I need you._

_I'm sorry._

(She could just block his number. She _should_ block his number.)

(Why does it feel heartless to block his number?)

(Why does it feel, even more strangely, like she has already done him too many wrongs?)

(Why does she feel like such a complete failure, like such an awful, unredeemable human being?)

"When do they start?" Sansa asks, trying to sound casual. She wants something, anything, to distract her. Renly checks the time his sleek black mobile. 

"A few minutes." His blue eyes narrow as he spots someone in the crowd. "Oh, good, they're making Myranda the queen of love and beauty this time. Thank god. Shella's way too old, I was just saying to Jon..." 

His words are swallowed by a roar of the crowd, and then everyone is getting to their feet, and Renly's strong hand is yanking Sansa back up as he screams at the top of his lungs, and Sansa has to stand on her tiptoes to see. 

The first knight is impossibly broad and impossibly tall, on a russet-coloured horse, with a yellow plume from his helmet. At his disinterested, obligatory wave, the crowd cheers. "That's Sandor," Renly yells in Sansa's ear. "He's a fucking nut, but the crowd loves him!" 

Sandor rides along the path, though there is something inherently bored and rote about the movement. 

And then the crowd explodes—if Sansa thought they were loud before, now they're _deafening_. Jon rides out on a dark horse, and Sansa hears some distinctly feminine shrieks as the dirt path becomes littered with roses. Renly claps his hands even as he rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and Sansa can't help it—she claps, too, caught up in the moment, and perhaps a little too grateful to have something so utterly absorbing to distract her. 

At last there is quiet: Sandor and Jon are facing each other, lances positioned, and Sansa and Renly sit back down; Sansa realises Renly is gripping her hand in his. "You looked really stressed; don't worry, the first one's always the most tense," Renly says in her ear, giving her hand a squeeze, and Sansa finds herself laughing, but her laughter stops when the charge begins. 

Jon and Sandor are barreling toward each other at relatively high speeds, with large sticks intended to pierce armor.

Suddenly, there is nothing silly about this event.

The horses seem massive; the lances seem deadly. Her heart is in her throat as they charge at each other, swift and sure, but Sandor's lance only glances off Jon's armor. "There we go," Renly says under his breath. "Jon never makes the first move. Watch this one." 

And Sansa does. She studies Jon as he shifts his hold on the lance; the sun flashes on his armor, and for a moment the world swims around her, and that strange sickness comes back, so she looks away. 

She looks to her right, into the crowd, her hand turning clammy in Renly's grip, and that's when she sees him—

—Her ex-fiance, Willas Tyrell, is standing there at the edge of the stands, holding a bouquet of roses and mouthing her name—

—There is a horrible _clang_ , then the sickening _crunch_ of wood, the _scream_ of a horse, and everything goes black. 


	4. the price of magic

**Past**

"Surely you realise the rumors are rampant," Olenna reasons, eying Father shrewdly. 

Father is wearing his King Eddard face—icy, impassive—and has filled the room with his knights. It's a show of Northern strength that is less than subtle, but Sansa knows it does not matter to the Tyrells. They will never attack; and besides, Olenna makes a point that even Sansa knows is true. "The Lannisters _know_ , your Grace. The Baratheons know. Everyone has heard of the special eldest daughter of King Eddard and the gifts she possesses. Your hiding the princess away has solved nothing." 

"You came to trap me in my lie, then," Father observes. 

"No, we came to marry my granddaughter to your son the Prince," Olenna says with an impudent roll of her eyes. "But so long as you do nothing to staunch the rumors about your daughter, my granddaughter is in danger. This marriage is supposed to strengthen our bond—I will not sit idly by while you allow my granddaughter's life to be in danger. Everyone will want your daughter's gift—and as the riots in King's Landing get worse, the Baratheons and the Lannisters will turn an eye toward her." 

Sansa watches Jon. Like the other knights, he stands against the wall, staring ahead, posture straight, armor gleaming. Occasionally she sees his gaze flick toward the Tyrells and she knows he is studying them, peering through their layers, trying to understand them. There is little that Sir Jon's grey eyes do not see, and she wonders, as his gaze rests on Willas, what he is thinking. 

"You propose a marriage between my daughter and your eldest," Father says now, nodding toward Willas, who looks down, almost shamefacedly, at the stone floor. "This visit has worked in your favour. Your concern works in your favour." 

"Of course it does—that is my duty," Olenna scoffs, "to ensure my family's safety and favour. But this match favours you as well, King Eddard. Princess Sansa's gifts will not be so evident in Highgarden, and a marriage to my grandson Willas will dispel any rumors." 

Sansa watches Willas' cheeks grow blotchy. Sir Jon said it earlier, when he predicted how this meeting would go: _Willas is no prize,_ he had said in that cool voice. _They say he cannot father children. A marriage to him would show that your father sees nothing special or unusual about you. No shrewd king would ever give a daughter like_ you _to a son like Willas._ Sir Jon has always had a keen grasp of the politics that elude so many of the other knights. It is, indeed, one of the reasons that he has risen to such status in spite of being a bastard. And he recounted these political machinations earlier with such grief, such a hollowness. 

Across the hall, her eyes meet Willas' soft brown ones, and she thinks she can see an apology in them. Or perhaps not an apology, but regret—and an ashamed acknowledgment that he is no prize. Sansa's heart breaks for him. _I am not either,_ she wants to tell him, but at the same time—

—Sir Jon has promised to be with her forever. And now that he has said such words, she cannot go back to life the way it was before. She cannot be parted from Sir Jon. And Willas' mere existence may deny her a forever with Sir Jon, and therefore she cannot love him. She cannot go to Highgarden—not without Jon. She cannot go anywhere without Jon.

She won't. 

"She would be married to the eldest son of Highgarden," Mace says now, shifting forward in his chair. "She would want for nothing; for much of the year she would have a freedom that you have denied her, by keeping her in that little tower." 

"You have done her a great disservice in hiding her, and you have not even saved her, besides," Olenna puts in now. Sansa knows that the Tyrells go too far, but they also must know her father would never react in a way that might dishonor him. "All of these years of imprisonment—for what? They still breathe stories of her in every corner of Westeros, King Eddard. And the longer the droughts in the south last, the hungrier for her gifts they will all be." 

"You will have six kingdoms marching on Winterfell," Mace warns. 

Her father says nothing but Sansa knows that Mace is right. The room becomes blurred and silvery before her, and she blinks against the urge to weep. Her existence has only ever brought trouble and grief. They speak of her 'gifts' yet her gifts only seem to take, and take, and take. If it were not for her, this would be yet another day of uncomplicated celebration. If it were not for her, this would be a happy, untainted union. 

If not for her, her family would be safe.

"Forgive me," begins a deep, soft voice, and Sansa watches in shock as Sir Jon steps forward. He bows his head politely toward Father. "You speak truths," he says to the Tyrells, "but I have spent years guarding the princess, and I know her gifts well. They come with a price, as all magic must." 

"A price?" Olenna asks, cocking her head to the side as she studies Jon. "And who are you?" 

"I am Sir Jon," Jon says respectfully. 

"Sir Jon of...?"

"Of nothing. I am a bastard," Jon replies stiffly. Olenna nods. 

"Go on. What is this price you speak of?" 

"Just as the princess can grant life, so too can she grant death," Sir Jon continues darkly. "I have seen it happen, and her powers are beyond her control now. They are too great. She could raze fields for a bad mood, an ill feeling. Thousands could starve for a whim." 

So he thinks such things of her? She has never done more than make some flowers wilt when she was sad. He makes her sound like a wild, crazed monster. An evil witch. 

A lump is forming in her throat. She grips the arms of her chair and stares down at the floor. Sir Jon said he would be with her forever, but this is what he thinks of her—as a curse, as a wild witch. "Her powers grow with every day," he continues roughly. "Today it may only be fields and forests that she can end, but who's to say her gifts—and her price—will never extend to human life?" 

Sansa cannot bear it any longer. He has broken her heart. So she slips out of the hall just as shouting breaks out, and the irony is that no one notices. 

**Present**

"Sansy, get it together!" Renly is shaking her. Sansa shivers as he holds her upright; there is a roaring crowd around her. "Jon's been unhorsed, come on. We've got to go help." 

Sansa grips Renly's shirt and looks around, but in the chaos, she can't find Willas. He has disappeared.

Was he ever there to begin with? Or did she imagine him? 

What is happening to her mind? 

Renly is pulling her along the stands, pushing roughly past the spectators. A small group of employees is forming around Jon in the dust, and Sandor, his opponent, is sliding off his horse with a clang and jangle of metal. "Fuck, they need to get him to the tent," Renly is hissing. 

Sansa looks around as they burst out of the stands, but Willas is nowhere to be found, and anyway, Renly is dragging her onto the field. Sam is hovering anxiously as a group of employees slide Jon onto a stretcher and begin carrying him to the striped tent at the other end of the field. "Is he conscious?" Renly demands as they follow the stretcher into the tent. All notes of coyness or teasing are gone from his voice. 

"I'm fine," comes Jon's furious voice. "Put me down—"

They set the stretcher down and help Jon onto a modern-looking cot, which is out of place here in the tent. The air is stuffy and everything feels oddly yellow, as the sun burns through the golden stripes and sets the tent aglow. Renly dismisses the other employees, making room in the tent. 

"What happened, Jon?" Sam asks, as Renly goes to Jon and helps him out of his helmet. Sansa watches the intimate moment, and with a jolt she finally puts it together. 

_Oh my god, Jon and Renly are together._

No wonder Renly was losing his mind while they were in the stands. He's kneeling before the bed now, making quick work of unbuckling Jon's armor. Jon looks flushed and his hair is disheveled; he also looks vaguely ill. Sansa almost wants to make everyone leave the tent and give Renly and Jon a moment alone together, but no one else seems to notice that they are all intruding on what should be a private moment. 

"I got dizzy," Jon explains, swaying slightly and setting out a quick hand to hold himself upright. With his free hand, still gloved, he pushes his wild hair back. 

Just then there's more clanging, and Sandor bursts into the tent. He is almost too tall to stand in the tent, and he's yanking off his helmet without ceremony to reveal a heavily scarred face, and tangled, sweaty hair. 

"The fuck, Snow?" he demands. 

"He got dizzy," Renly says sharply, and then he looks at Jon. "Did you eat today?" 

Jon rolls his eyes. 

"You saw me eat," he says acidly. Sansa pictures them living together, but somehow she can't even imagine it. Jon must be a different man, in private, with Renly. Perhaps he's more tender; perhaps Renly sees something in him; perhaps Renly knows how to read this moody, distant man.

All of a sudden she is filled with an implacable and relentless sense of grief, and she subtly leans against one of the tentpoles to hide it. She doesn't know if it's the after effects of adrenaline, or if it's because of seeing Willas—real or imagined—but she quite suddenly is overwhelmed by a feeling of devastation. 

"That's odd, Sansa got dizzy at the very same moment," Renly wonders now, glancing back at her. His blue eyes narrow. 

"She still looks dizzy," Sandor observes, looking Sansa over. And then he's backing away. "Don't get me sick, too," he's saying, backing out of the tent. "Go home, Snow." 

"Sandor's right; you both must have the same thing," Gilly says, fidgeting with her princess hat. Over Renly's head, Sansa meets Jon's eyes. "Let me go get the thermometer from the office," Gilly adds now, leaving the tent. 

"I'll explain the match is over," Sam says, following her. "I suppose we'll get the museum to issue a refund to everyone... oh, dear," he frets. 

Now it's just Sansa, Renly, and Jon. Renly gets to his feet. 

"You want water?" Renly asks Jon more softly now. Sansa is just about to slip out too, and give these two men a moment alone, but Renly's turning around. "Sansa, can you hang out with him? I'm going to go get some water and his clothes." 

"I'm _fine_ —" Jon snaps, but Renly only rolls his eyes and ducks out of the tent—

—and now they're alone. 

"Are you hurt?" Sansa asks, sitting down on the little stool next to the cot. Jon clears his throat. 

"I'm fine, seriously, it was just a fall," he promises quietly. His grey eyes slide to her, then away again, and Sansa thinks of the lance glancing off armor. It almost feels like they are jousting, too. She wonders which one of them will be unhorsed first. "Are you... alright? You got dizzy too?" 

"Yes, I've been a little off all morning," Sansa replies, smoothing her hair. "We must both be coming down with the same bug." 

"Yeah." Jon pulls at his breastplate. 

"Do you want help with that?" Sansa offers, watching him struggle. 

"You don't have to, it's really heavy," Jon says awkwardly, but Sansa wants to distract herself from that strange feeling of loss, of grief, and she can tell that Jon is itching to get out of the armor, so she gets to her feet. 

"It's fine, let me help," she presses. "Where do I—?"

Jon wordlessly shows her where the breastplate is buckled, and lifts his arms as she bends forward and unbuckles it—

—And it happens again, a thousand things flit past her mind's eye, a thousand things that she does not understand: a fire in the night, wild and sparking; pitchforks and hay; a screaming horse; an urgent voice, soft and deep and full of grief and love, though she cannot make out what it says; Willas with his roses; that same cage of flowers— 

"Damn," Jon says, and she realises he is holding her upright, his strong gloved hands at her waist. The tent is spinning around her, and she reaches out clumsy hands to steady herself on his shoulders. He looks up at her. "You're really unwell; you ought to lie down," he warns, but he doesn't move his hands from her waist even after she has steadied herself. He must be so disinterested in women that even this close contact does not mean anything to him, but for Sansa, it is oddly intimate to be held by a man like this, so close they could kiss, and she steps back shakily. As she pulls away, Jon's gloved hands brush against her waist, leaving trails of gooseflesh.

"I-I probably should," she agrees faintly. Just then, Renly comes back with a bundle of dark clothing and a bottle of water. "Just in time," she says with a wan smile. "I'm really quite dizzy, so I'm going to go lie down," she tells Renly apologetically. Renly frowns. 

"Wait a minute and I'll walk you," he says, but Sansa shakes her head. 

"Focus on Jon," she urges him. "I'll be fine." And before he can protest, she slips out of the tent. Maybe it is just some strange illness, making her hallucinate, she tells herself, though the reassurance is thin and doesn't stick. She has had colds and viruses before, of course; they have never made her see things that aren't there—

—and she nearly smacks into Willas, who is standing outside of the tent, holding a bouquet of lush red roses.

"Sansa," he breathes.

"Willas," Sansa stammers in horror, the cloth of the tent flapping against her. 

So she wasn't hallucinating.

It has been a month since she last saw him. He is as delicately handsome, almost pretty, as ever. He has such sweet, fine features that he would not be out of place as the leading man in a Regency-era romance, and as always, he's dressed beautifully, thanks to Margaery's taste: everything subtly expensive and of fine quality, so that he always appears sleek and well-dressed but never fussy. Any other woman would be delighted to have such a man waiting for them with a bouquet of costly roses, but Sansa only feels a clench of sickness. 

Willas looks down at the roses. 

"I tried ringing you," he begins, smiling sadly down at the flowers. 

"I didn't pick up because I didn't want to see you, Willas," Sansa reminds him, and the guilt and regret and shame surge. Willas' lips twitch as he brushes a thumb along a velvety petal. 

(After years of being so passive, so relenting, so gracious, why does he choose _now_ to suddenly become so insistent, so determined? Now that she no longer wishes to be with him, now that she no longer can see a future for them—why must he change into someone else now?)

"But—" he begins, but Sansa hears a clang behind her, and Jon and Renly are peering out of the tent, squinting in the sunshine. 

"These grounds are for employees only," Jon says with such brutal frost that Sansa's skin burns with cold even under the hot sun. He is looking at Willas with profound disgust, and Willas shrinks back, understandably. Jon's cool grey eyes settle on the bouquet of roses, and Willas bites his lip. 

"We can go somewhere else," he says softly, turning to Sansa. 

"Willas, I—"

"She just said she doesn't want to see you. We all heard it," Jon interrupts fiercely. Renly is looking at Jon with a very clear warning, but Jon ignores him. "Are you stalking her, or what?" 

"I'm her fiance, actually," Willas counters with rare fire, his neck flushing. Renly's brows shoot up. "And I'd like to talk to her alone." 

"But she doesn't want you to—"

"—Jon," Renly cuts in, a warning in his voice, "let's go to the armory." He shoots Sansa a worried look, then looks to Willas. "If you didn't pay for parking, you get fined," he says coolly, and Sansa realises this is Renly's more subtle hint that Willas is unwelcome. "And no laypeople are allowed on this part of the grounds; Jon's right. You'll have to talk near the entrance." 

"I paid for parking," Willas says. She can see his anger in the clench of his smooth hand, and for a moment her heart breaks for him. He is so gentle; she knows how much this display of backbone costs him. She feels a flutter of protectiveness that crashes up against the certainty that led her here, to Winterfell. 

But Renly is leading Jon away, hissing, "your bitchiness is absolutely out of control lately, you prick," and Jon is snapping back something unrepeatable, and now she and Willas are alone in the sunshine. 

(Now she almost wishes she was just hallucinating, earlier. She wishes she were merely going mad.) 

"I can't see you, Willas," Sansa says at last. 

"I'll come back every day until you can," he says quietly. He holds out the roses, and Sansa crosses her arms over her chest. It kills her to be so cruel, but to take them—well, she just cannot. Willas falters, and she hears him laugh softly. "I thought you liked red roses." 

"They're lovely, but I can't accept them, Willas," she says stiffly. "You know that." 

"Then I'll find flowers you can accept," he resolves. "I'm staying at a hotel nearby, Sansa. I'll wait as long as you need me to." 

(The only reason he can afford such an absurd and grand gesture is that Willas has no need for work; he is from so much money that no matter what happens with the world, he will never go without. And she almost was swallowed by that world of unaccountable wealth, and to willingly turn away from that world, she knew, puzzled many of her friends and relatives.)

He leaves her standing there alone by the tent, and she watches him walk away, a forlorn figure holding a bouquet of drooping red roses. And suddenly she is overpowered by a sense of suffocation, by humiliation, by guilt, by resentment, by anger, by grief. It is all too much: she is at fault for all of this mess, but then, isn't Willas, too? And why does he not know her better, why does he not understand how much she would despise this gesture? Why does he not understand how humiliating she finds it, to be confronted in front of people she wants to respect her, like this? Why is he choosing _now_ to be strong? 

And, perhaps worst of all, why can she not make herself want him? 

So Sansa runs, blindly and helplessly. She does not think about where she is going; she only wants to get away. 


	5. there's no such thing

**Past**

So Sansa runs. For all of the years that she has never so much as taken a different corridor back to her tower, she now finds that willfulness comes easily to her, as though she were a rebel all along. She hears the great hall's door swing shut behind her so she runs faster, darting into the courtyard and leaving curtains of thorny, ugly vines in her wake—

—and that comes easily, too. Maybe Sir Jon is right. Maybe she is a monster; maybe she is a witch.

(She does not know it but the vines blacken and their thorns grow sharper with that painful thought.)

She has spent so many years listening to stories of Winterfell that Sir Jon doesn't realise he has given his hateful beast the keys to her own freedom. Sansa knows just how to slip out of the castle, thanks to the stories and the gossip he has told her over the years—of where maids were found kissing their squires in secret; of where southern emissaries were spotted slipping into the castle. All those peaches and quiet nights in her tower have led to this: he has let the beast free, and now she may roam and wreak havoc, just as he has apparently feared for so long.

How could she have been such a fool? How could she have ever allowed herself to believe that Sir Jon's words were anything more than the reluctant words of a two-faced, ambitious man? While she was falling in love, visibly and obviously, he was edging backward from her, offering her just enough love and just enough companionship to make her father think he was doing his duty. 

The rage and grief are beyond her control, so Sansa runs to the Wolfswood, where she can be among the other beastly creatures that knights so fear. The night air stings her eyes, and then she is in the lush velvet blackness of the forest at night. Its air is fragrant with night flowers, but amid all this beauty, little glowing eyes flash and blink in the woods around her. She feels a twinge of fear that soon ebbs as she realises she is one of them, a feral creature who walks one with the night. She may be in pain, but these woods belong to her now, too, and she to them. 

"My lady," a voice calls, like a song on the air. She wonders if she is imagining it, and the shame of it—that even after his betrayal, she can still long for his voice—is too much to bear. She longs to lose herself in a story, but how can she do that when it is always Sir Jon's face that she pictures? That is another thing he has ruined for her, she presumes, because the flame she bears for him may never go out; she may never stop imagining his face in every story. She pictures herself, hundreds of years from now, nothing more than ash and stone, something in her soul still burning for him even after he has betrayed her. "My lady, I beg that you stop and listen to me," Sir Jon calls again.

She can hear the slice of his sword through the thorny bramble that she grows in her wake. The vines turn brittle and grow higher and ever more tangled, until at last she hears him stop. His words may be his weapon, but she has a weapon of her own, too.

So she stops, and turns around.

She has come to a little clearing, streaked with moonlight, but Sir Jon is barred from entering this place. The summer's last fireflies dot the air with gold around her—but the bramble that rises up from the ground, gnarled and black, looks evil.

She has made this. This has come from her soul. This is what she has done in her grief, her jealousy, her shame. This is what she has done in her broken, tangled lust for Sir Jon.

She is a monster.

Behind Sir Jon lays a trail of destruction, as he hacked his way toward her, but no other knights have followed him. He is alone. She cautiously approaches the wall of thorns, and peers at Sir Jon through it. "Sansa," he says more softly, placing a gloved hand on one vine, fingers curling around it, "take these down."

"Do you not want protection from the witch you so fear?"

She watches, with another stab of grief and horror at herself, as more vines viciously sprout at her words and at the agony that twists them; thorns grow dangerously close to Sir Jon's hand, but he does not pull away. 

"I will have no wall between us, my lady," he says. He sounds like he is in pain, too—has she wounded him? She hates the idea, but then, she wishes she did not. She wants to be cruel and indifferent toward him, as he has been so cruel and indifferent toward her. "Not anymore. Take these down."

"You called me by my name just now; such behavior could end you," she points out, crossing her arms over her chest, for the night is chill and, in spite of her many weapons and abilities, she feels very, very alone. 

But Sir Jon does not flinch. 

"All of this will end me, and I'll go gladly," he swears. 

She drops her arms and steps back, for his eyes look dark and there is a vehemence to him, a darkness, that she has never before glimpsed. "I would lie, cheat, and steal to keep you safe, my lady. I would walk through fire, I would dishonor myself; I would become a turn-cloak and spit on your father's name if it kept you safe."

"But you spoke of me as though—"

"—I won't let them take you south," Sir Jon interrupts furiously. "Aye, you might be in danger here, but you'd be in worse danger there. I'd tell them you could turn knights into toads if I thought it would turn them from you." 

And there it is again: that sly half-smile that belongs to her alone, always and forever, just as he promised.

Her agony now seems so silly; the Wolfswood, which glimmers and winks and rustles around her, suddenly seems like home. Her cheeks, she realises, are wet with relief, and they each watch as pale little blossoms unfurl along the vines and the air turns fragrant with honeysuckle. He loves her, he _loves_ her, and nothing else matters. 

"What if your words fail?" Sansa asks. 

"They have, my lady. I am only a knight, and a bastard one at that. No king can be seen heeding the warning of so lowly a man, not even King Eddard." She hears him draw his sword. The flowers become blurred before her through her tears as Sir Jon hacks through the hazel and honeysuckle. 

"So my father agreed?" she whispers. 

"The Tyrells are not the only ones who may lie, my lady," Sir Jon says softly, as he parts the vines' ruins and steps into her clearing. "King Eddard says one thing to their faces and another to mine." 

"He asks you to defy them? He would ask such a thing of you?" Sansa watches as Sir Jon kneels before her.

Sir Jon bows his head. 

"He only permits what I would have done regardless," he admits. "You will never go south—so long as I live." 

And there it is again, that darkness—but no, it's not darkness. It is fire. Sir Jon raises his gaze to hers as he stays kneeling before her. His grey eyes look black in the night, black as coal, black as ash, black as the velvety sky. 

"So I will remain in my tower?" 

At this, Sir Jon shakes his head slightly, and now Sansa understands. They will flee, together—perhaps even tonight. They will leave behind her family, her books, her whole life. 

"We must leave tonight, my lady," he says softly, for he knows how much love she bears for the life she must leave behind. "We must leave now." 

And yet it is not grief that fills her as she stares down at Sir Jon. Her hands tremble. 

"Sir Jon, rise," she whispers, and he does, but he is smiling again, that reluctant smile that is hers, hers, hers. 

"My lady, I am no knight anymore," he murmurs, looking down at her as he drops his sword. 

"And I am no lady anymore," she reminds him. "I am only Sansa." 

"Sansa," he whispers, and the clearing around them bursts into bloom. 

**Present**

Sansa flees the fairgrounds and slips out of the castle bounds. The sunshine is hot and everything smells like cut grass and the yellow-green scent of heather burning under the sun, and the air buzzes with the end of summer around her, but she feels none of it for her anger. 

She has never been so angry, and it only gets worse with each step. Her eyes burn with tears of rage and her hands shake, so she fists them in the pockets of her field jacket and walks, determinedly, her boots thrashing and crackling through the grass and bramble. A thousand excuses for her rage clutter behind her teeth, but none of them hold as much power as the singular reason for her fury: _I don't want you here, Willas._

But every time she thinks that, she is met with matching surges of guilt and shame: Willas is a good man, Willas is a kind man; she is lucky to be loved by such a gentle, generous, handsome, sweet man. All of her friends have told her so for years... 

(Except Arya, who told her Willas was a clingy pussy when she first met him, and has visibly fought against further remarks since; but Arya has said similar things about all of her boyfriends. Joffrey, she insisted, was a dormant serial killer; Waymar was a self-absorbed pretty boy who would undoubtedly die doing something stupid and embarrassing; Harry, meanwhile, was a wannabe-snob who seemed to think golf counted as a sport—to Arya, it doesn't. Arya has informed her that no one is good enough for her, and Sansa has always asked her, _then am I meant to be alone?_ )

The Wolfswood, barren and jagged, rises up before Sansa now, and there's a path leading into the forest, so Sansa impulsively takes it. It's quite hot in the sun, after all, and she isn't ready to go back to Winterfell, and besides, her Druid made this place her home. So Sansa takes the plunge, and sets off into the forest. 

It feels dark as night as soon as she enters, and the temperature drops. She was sweating, earlier, in her field jacket—enough to feel self-conscious about taking the jacket off—but now a chill settles over her, and she snaps the field jacket shut, glad for it. The Wolfswood is like no forest that Sansa has ever seen; there is no greenery to be found anywhere, save for the moss on the forest floor and the lichen on the trees. Everything else is silver and sharp, even though it is the end of August. 

For a long time she simply follows the path. At first, her anger plagues her. After years of her waiting for Willas to show some sign of a backbone, he has chosen now—when it is patently too late—to show it. And at the same time, she feels frustrated that it is only now that she has found her own backbone. She went along with so much for so many years, as did Willas, and now she looks at the past few years, a wasteland of wasted time and a niggling sense of wasted youth, and feels a burst of fury. If only she had found her backbone sooner, she might have ended it with Willas; if only she had ended it sooner, she might have met the man of her dreams. 

(But what if that man does not exist?)

(What if Willas is the closest she will ever get?)

(What if there is no true love, just acceptance?)

(And if that is the way things are, why has everything—the books, the movies, the fairytales, her own mother and father—lied to her? Why did no one tell her there was no such thing as a soulmate, as true love, as real passion?)

(And why is she only now, at this age, finding this out, now that it is perhaps too late to go and start over with someone else?)

She slides back and forth, a seesaw of indecision, of gut feelings and rationality; but soon the woods grow impossibly dark around her, and thoughts of Willas ebb from her. Her longing for true love has always been her greatest driver, and yet, for the first time, something else eclipses such longing as she looks around at these barren woods, and finds herself thinking instead of the Druid of the Wolfswood. 

She pictures a slip of a woman with tangled dark hair and a long white robe, slipping in and out of the mist; she feels an overwhelming sense of grief for that woman and she cannot place its source, only that she feels, somehow, that she has mistreated that woman greatly. She has used the Druid of the Wolfswood, the lost princess, to absorb her own thoughts; she has used the Druid to not think about her own silly grievances—but here in these woods, she senses that woman was so much more; she senses that woman deserved to be so much more than a distraction. 

"I am sorry," she finds herself whispering.

It is cold enough here that her breath mists in the air before her. Sansa traces her fingertips along silvery boughs as she walks; she dips beneath trailing, deadened vines. Black bramble crackles beneath her boots. _I am sorry_ , she thinks, _I am so sorry_ , and she is not quite sure exactly what it is she's apologising for. For her own use of the Druid; or for whatever it is that drove the Druid to this barren, tragic wood? 

Her mind is drawn to the strange visions and dizziness, and she waits, as she walks, for that incapacitating dizziness to return, but it never does. And somehow, here in these dark woods, she can recall each image that plagued her in perfect clarity: blossoms along a cage made of vines; pitchforks against a sky turned red with flame; a strong hand lifting a perfect peach up to pretty lips. Is it just her wild, overactive imagination haunting her, or—

—What else could it possibly be? 

And then she stumbles into a clearing, and that's when she sees it: an enormous tree, larger than all the others, stands at the middle of the clearing. Its gnarled, knotted trunk twists and writhes upward, its boughs splaying out endlessly, tangling with the other trees. The ground surrounding it bears no grass or moss; it is just ash. 

And then she finds tears slipping down her cheeks. She touches a fingertip to her cheek and brushes away the wetness in surprise. This is a place of grief, of powerful sadness; this is a place, too, of consuming love. Sansa approaches the tree with care, and touches a gentle hand to its enormous trunk, and feels a burst of warmth. It is like stepping from shadow to sunlight. She reaches for a knot; she has the idea of climbing upward, though she does not know why—

"—Hey, um, Dr. Stark?" 

Sansa shrieks and drops to the ground, her knees almost buckling beneath her at the impact, and turns. 

Jon Snow is standing at the edge of the clearing, walking a bicycle which has a light attached to its handlebars. He has changed back into his own clothes, all rumpled and careworn, and he looks wary. 

"Oh, god, Jon," she stammers, brushing off her chapped hands and turning from the tree. Her face flushes. "You scared me. Hi!" 

"Hi," Jon says slowly, peering at her. He leans the bicycle against a tree and approaches, limned in silver by the light from his bike. "I didn't mean to scare you. I saw you going towards the woods and figured I'd make sure you were alright," he explains uncomfortably. Sansa wonders if it was, in fact, Renly who made him follow her. 

"Oh, yeah, of course. I mean, thanks," Sansa says, wiping her hands on her field jacket. "I just—just wanted to walk and clear my head, is all." 

Willas lingers in the air between them; Willas and his bouquet of lush red roses. Jon shifts and clears his throat, looking exceedingly uncomfortable with this whole situation. "I'm sorry about earlier," she begins, and his gaze shoots up again. 

"You're _sorry_?" he asks in disgust. "You've got nothing to be sorry for," he begins acidly, shaking his head, all previous discomfort gone, and replaced by fire. "You obviously didn't invite him there, and you don't seem like the kind of person who would appreciate something like that, anyway." 

"You're right," Sansa admits, surprised that he can already tell this about her where Willas apparently could not. They fall silent and Jon looks away again, clearly embarrassed by his outburst. He rakes a hand over his hair and paces away. "He's, um, my ex-fiancé, not my current fiancé," she feels the need to explain. Jon nods, biting his lip, clearly averting his eyes. That momentary burst of fire is gone, and now they're back to being awkward and stilted again. Sansa cannot shake the sense that this man strongly dislikes her, in spite of his defence of her. "I didn't think he'd be this...persistent, to be honest," she continues now, just for something to say. 

"It's called stalking," Jon says stubbornly, but then retreats again. His face becomes closed-off again, impassive and unreadable, as silent, uncomfortable moments pass between them. 

"Are you feeling better?" Sansa ventures, because he's still standing there, but he's not saying anything, and she's not sure what he wants from her. He doesn't seem like he appreciates her company, but on the other hand, he's not turning around and leaving, either. 

"Um, yeah, fine," he says with a shrug, though he still won't meet her eyes. "Are you?" 

"Yes, I think the walk did me some good." Sansa looks up, realising she doesn't know what time it is, as she left her mobile in her flat—specifically to get away from Willas' calls. But it's impossible to see the sky from here, so she's got no clue of how late it is. "I must have been walking for a long time; it must be late." 

"It is a little late for tree-climbing," Jon hedges, and she isn't sure if she sees a flash of humor in his eyes, or if she's only imagining it. "It'll be dark soon." 

"I know it looks odd," Sansa admits, blushing, and she realises Jon is looking at her now, at last, gaze roving over her face and neck, taking in her blush, and that only makes her go more pink. "I just... I felt a pull toward this tree. And when I touched it, the bark felt warm, so..." 

Now that she's saying it out loud, she realises it makes no sense, but Jon isn't looking away or snorting like she would have guessed he might. Instead he peers at the tree and walks toward it, and sets one strong, scarred hand on the bark. He's an arm's length away from her now, so she sees how he flinches slightly at the contact, how his Adam's apple moves as he swallows. She sees, up close, how pretty his lips are, and she finds herself thinking, unwillingly, of peaches.

"It does," he says quietly, dropping his hand. 

A faint scratching sound makes them both look down, and Sansa watches the impossible happen. 

Moss, verdant and bright, has grown beneath their feet before their eyes. Or has it? Was it there all along, and now the light from Jon's bike has made it obvious?

She does not speak, she does not breathe. 

"I—that—that's odd," she hears herself saying, pulling her hand away from the tree and taking a clumsy step back. "I don't think I noticed that moss before." When Jon looks up, his eyes look dark. 

"Yeah," he says after a moment, his voice rough, and he clears his throat again. "Yeah, really odd. I didn't think anything could grow in these woods." 

_Do you believe..._ she cannot even finish the thought in her mind, but the wind whispers it anyway, high in the barren treetops above them: _magic, magic, magic_. Sansa thinks of her Druid, of her lost princess, and turns back to the tree, touching its warmth again. Gooseflesh ripples along her skin and her scalp tingles with it, like she senses an impending storm. 

"It must be the Druid coming to life, or maybe there's a little of her magic left here," she says, and she means it as a joke, but Jon doesn't laugh. She drops her hand again and looks back at him, but he's already turning away from her, shoulders rising and falling as though he's struggling for breath. 

"Must be," he forces out. 

"Are you feeling sick again?" she wonders, following him, and he looks back at her over a lean shoulder. 

"No, I'm fine," he brushes her off. "But it's getting late, and I promised Samwell and Renly that I'd bring you back in one piece." 

So her guess was right: it was Renly that sent him, not Jon acting on his own impulse. He walks back toward his bicycle, and kicks back the kickstand. "I've, um, got a lot of notes on your Druid," he says, walking his bike toward the path. He isn't looking at her. "She crops up a lot in my research. If you want, you can stop by and have a look. I mean, it's probably all stuff you already know." 

"That would be great," Sansa says in surprise. She tries not to think about why she feels that peculiar sense of grief again, the same that she felt in the tent earlier. She tries not to think about why she felt it, so strongly, at the image of stepping into the home that Jon shares with Renly. But she can't help it: there is something unbearably sad about imagining a closet filled with both men's things; imagining them cooking together; imagining passing by the bedroom that they share. Is her imagination really so overactive that she is getting like _this_ over a handsome man? Because that's all it is; she doesn't _know_ Jon, she just finds him beautiful. And here she is again, making up a whole constellation of possibility around this man who will never want her.

She shakes away the feelings. She has always felt too much, too intensely. She has always been like this. She should have a better handle on her emotions by now; she should have better control. "I guess I'll see you back at the castle. What time is it, anyway?"

"Almost seven," Jon says, glancing at his watch, "and you ought to come back with me. That's why I followed you. It'll take you hours to get out of here on foot. You can sit on the handlebars. It's not the most comfortable, but I couldn't follow you in my truck." 

"The handlebars," Sansa blurts. Jon nods. "Um, how does that even..." 

"Here, I'll help you," he says, and she walks to him tentatively. "Just face away from me, and put your hands back on them—yeah, like that—"

He guides her hands onto the handlebars, and she stifles a shiver at the feel of his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, for it seems like such an intimate touch, just like when he touched her waist, "—and now you push off." He's touching her waist again, helping to lift her back onto the bike. His shoulder brushes her back as she settles, shaky and unsteady, his strong hand lingering at her waist. "And you just put your feet on the wheelguard there," he instructs. "And then hold on tight." 

As grateful as she is to have a quick way out of these woods, she's also sad to leave them. She is not ready to leave the warmth of that tree. Sansa glances over her shoulder back at the tree—her Druid's tree, she is certain of it—and gasps. The ground around it is covered in moss, and glossy leaves have unfurled. Jon looks back too, his stubble brushing her cheek.

"Is that—is that possible?" she blurts out. "Wasn't it—wasn't it completely bare before?" 

She looks to Jon. They are so close now that their foreheads could brush. She can see the freckles in his grey eyes, she can see every individual lash. He is as impenetrable and as unexpectedly lovely as the Wolfswood itself. 

"I think there's a lot about this place that I can't explain," he says quietly, "a lot I've spent years trying to explain." 

His voice is low and his eyes never leave hers. There is something almost pleading about his expression, or is it her imagination? She does not know how to read this uncommon man, just as she does not know what to think about the Wolfswood.

"Is it magic? It—it can't be, right?" she whispers.

The very words feel ridiculous, and yet there is nothing rational, nothing that can be explained by science and facts, about a tree bursting to life within minutes. It is impossible. 

His eyes flick to her lips and then back to her eyes. He draws in a shallow, tight breath. 

"I don't know, Sansa," he breathes. And then he looks away abruptly. "We should get out of here. Renly told me he'd murder me if I didn't bring you back in one piece." 

"Yeah," she replies, her voice thick, and Jon pushes off and she faces forward again, gripping the handlebars, her back brushing Jon's chest every now and then as he pedals along the path, back toward Winterfell. And Sansa has the strangest feeling that something is chasing them, something is closing in on them; she has the powerful sense that they are running from something. 

Suddenly, the problem of Willas seems to not matter at all. As they explode out of the Wolfswood and into the indigo late-summer evening, Sansa looks back at those dark woods.

 _I will find you_ , she thinks, and for a moment she is almost certain she can see a white-robed figure, slipping in and out of the trees like mist. Though the Druid has been dead and gone for a thousand years, Sansa finds herself thinking, _I will help you, I swear it._


	6. a sordid affair

**Past**

He should not be so happy. He does not deserve it. After all, they are fleeing from Sansa's family, from Sansa's home, in the dead of night, stealing away like thieves or lovers. He is leaving behind his armor, his belongings, his friends, his home. He knows this is a tragedy; he knows they will not return for a very, very long time—long enough for death and disease and old age to overtake people that they both love. He should be filled with grief, he should be despairing; he should find this impossible. 

But Jon shucks the armor with a surprising ease. He has worked for years, for as long as he can remember, to be a knight of Winterfell; yet when he and Sansa mount the dark horse and steal off under the cover of darkness, he can only think that this is who he has been all along, hiding beneath that armor, and now he is finally himself.

Jon keeps his features as impassive as possible, so that Sansa will not see his happiness, because he knows she must be grieving. He will not harm her with his selfishness. But to hold her like this—to feel her back against his chest, his arms brushing her sides, her hair tickling his chin—

They both exhale as they get further from the castle. The night is balmy and has the bitter tang of grass warmed by the sun, though it is the middle of the night. The road is a pale ribbon cut through the velvet night, and the only sound that of the horse's hoofs pattering a heartbeat against the road as they ride. 

He should not be happy, but Jon's skin prickles with it, his heart twists with it, his blood sings with it. He must bite his lip to hide it. He is so dishonorable, that he would find joy in this dark night. He has never felt so much like a villain as he does tonight—and he has felt like a villain so many times. Every time he let his gaze linger on Sansa, every time he closed his eyes at night and allowed himself even a glimpse past that thin veil of his honor, which has so flimsily shielded him from his desires all these years... He has always known what lay beyond that veil, has always tread so cautiously around it. He has always known that if he pulled it aside it would never fall back into place, and now he knows he was right to be so careful for so long. 

She is in his arms now, and there is nothing honorable or admirable about what he is thinking. 

They ride all night, and into the next morning. The mist roils and curls around them, turned silver in the dawn, and Sansa breathes that it is beautiful, because of course she does. Amid her grief, of course she sees the beauty in a morning that looks like any other. 

When they stop, mid-morning, to let the horse rest, they find a copse of trees near a stream, which shields them from view. Jon ties the horse and lays down his cloak for her. 

"You must rest, my lady," he says, avoiding her eyes. He feels exposed, he feels loose and dangerous, even in broad daylight. The weight of his armor always reminded him of his place, of his purpose, before—without that weight he might just forget himself. So he kneels down in the grass and focuses on spreading the cloak out. 

"I'm just Sansa, remember?" she points out. Jon looks up. She stands over him, wrapped in a forest-green cloak, her copper hair wild and curling in the morning mist. Her blue eyes look weary, and he is certain she has wept, but she is smiling at him. She does not know it, but vines of palest green are unfurling and twining along the oak bough over her head. Jon's mouth goes dry. "You should rest ...Jon," she adds. His name is as unweighted as he is, without his title before it, and they both sense its new weightlessness. The tether is gone. "I cannot sleep anyway," she admits, sitting down on the edge of his cloak, and she shakes her head, smiling to herself. "It is so strange. I am so sad, and so happy, all at once." 

Jon says nothing. He does not trust himself. "Please, let me take watch while you rest," she insists. "I can sleep when we ride again." 

She places a lovely hand on the cloak beside her. "Sleep, Jon," she urges, her voice gentle, and Jon finds himself obeying. He lays down beside her, and then she is guiding his head to rest in her lap. His skin tingles along the back of his neck where her fingers graze it, and he closes his eyes, grappling desperately to pull that veil back into place. He can feel the warmth of her skin, of her thigh, through her gown and cloak, and he breathes shallowly as her fingertips move through his hair. 

She sings a soft lullaby that he has heard her sing under her breath before, and he reluctantly allows himself to sink against her, allows himself to let out a breath. His eyelids feel heavier, now. He knows it is foolish to let her sing—it might draw attention to them—but the sound is so sweet... And the mid-morning sun is just warm enough to soothe him, and her cloak smells like her, and the air hums around them, so Jon sleeps. 

**Present**

They say little on the ride back, but when Jon swerves through the hunter's gate, they both look back at the closing gate as though they've outrun something. Sansa slides shakily off the handlebars, her arms and legs stiff from holding on. Mist rolls through the courtyard around them. Through the mist she can see the golden squares of light coming from the scholar's keep's windows, and the modern sights in the windows—the old fax machine, the squashy armchairs, the cheap lamp—feel like splashes of cold water, obliterating what they saw in the Wolfswood. 

And what did they see, anyway? Sansa turns back to Jon, the question on the tip of her tongue, but she finds she cannot bring herself to ask. There is no earthly explanation for it; he has already admitted that. 

(But the shared secret unfurls between them, gossamer like mist and just as diaphanous, and for a moment, Sansa meets his eyes and feels like she has found a hidden path—a path to bonding with this impenetrable, unknowable man; a path to friendship.) 

(Because, of course, it is not a path toward anything else.)

"So when can I stop by and see your notes?" she asks, shaking herself away from that thought. Jon's eyes flick to hers, then away again, as he chews his lip. 

He is pretending to think on it, and he takes his time. She tries not to watch his teeth along his lip. 

If he were not with Renly, it would feel like an inappropriately long silence; it would feel like he might be debating whether to take a dangerous next step. If Jon were not gay, this hesitation would seem like some sort of tacit acknowledgment of something bubbling beneath the surface. Sansa has never played the game of an affair herself, but she's seen it play out enough times, and she's read enough romance novels, to know the beats of the song: a subtle glance, an extra pause. A look of _should we_? A _re we really...?_ And then, _yes, let's_. 

But as he's with Renly, perhaps he's only weighing whether he regrets his offer or not. ...Or, she thinks with a flash of embarrassment, perhaps that strange, fizzing sense of desire she feels for him is obvious to him, and he is trying to decide how and when he will let her down gently. How many times has he had to explain to women that he will never offer them anything more than research notes, than a bicycle ride home? 

She needs to reassure him. "I'm sorry, I guess I'm overexcited," she says, backing off, and she takes a step backward toward the scholar's keep, waving her hand. "I'm sure you're exhausted and want—"

"—No, you don't need to apologise," Jon says abruptly. "I offered." 

There's that reluctant look again. "My stuff's not organised," he warns, sliding off his bicycle, gravel crunching beneath his trainers. "But I can dig up what I have and give you something to read tonight, at least. It'll only take a minute." 

They fall into step together, walking past the scholar's keep, when they spot a tall figure leaving one of the museum's towers, balancing a box on one hip. Renly emerges from the mist. 

"You found our lost princess," he observes, shifting the box against his hip, and he reaches out with his free hand, holding the back of it to Jon's forehead. The movement is unstudied and careless; Jon swats his hand away, looking embarrassed. "Still no fever." 

"I feel fine," Jon says gruffly, "I told you already." And then he rubs the back of his neck. "We're just—I'm just showing Sansa my notes on the druid of the Wolfswood." 

"Worker bees," Renly teases affectionately. He checks his watch. "Damn, it's late. I'll be calling it a day soon." 

Is he telling Jon he'll be home soon? But there's no time to observe further, because Jon's already walking again, and Renly's passing them, complaining to himself about disorganised interns, or something along those lines, and Sansa has no choice but to hasten and follow Jon. They walk together in silence toward the godswood, and Sansa realises what she missed earlier: there are a few tiny cottages on the edge of the grounds. This must be where Jon lives.

(With Renly? Or alone?)

"The mist is so pretty," she says, just for something to say. Jon exhales, his breath fogging in the air before him, but he offers no reply, and there's just the night noises and the persistent clicking of his bicycle as he walks it through the damp grass. 

"Sorry for the mess," he mutters as he unlocks the door. He leaves the bicycle leaning against the wall by the door, and then shoulders into the cottage. 

It's tiny, a single room with a sloping, uneven floor that must have been hastily tacked on in the last fifty years, along with a bathroom. There's an unmade bed in the corner, and a kitchenette that is little more than a makeshift stove and a sink. There's an enormous hearth, and a little square table in front of it laden with gardening tools, sheafs of paper, and a little dark amber jar that Sansa realises is burn ointment. Against the opposite wall is a bowed bookshelf that is so jam-packed with books that it looks like to remove one would make the rest of them explode out. Jon shrugs out of his field jacket and hangs it on a hook by the door; there's another jacket there, too—is it Renly's?—and a small pile of boots. 

Jon looks hassled as he goes to the table, pulling down one sleeve of his jumper hastily as he goes, and rummaging through the papers. 

"It's lovely," Sansa reassures him, stepping further inside and lingering by the bookshelf.

There is an entire section on the Targaryens, in spite of his supposed disdain for them, she notices; and then, closer to the hearth, there's an older section, with books whose spines are bound with cracked leather or simply old string. "May I...?" she glances at Jon, and he shrugs, so she kneels down and slides one of the ancient books from the shelf. It's an old alchemy text, and if she hadn't just seen whatever it is she saw in the Wolfswood tonight, she would laugh. 

But she's not laughing now.

When she looks back at Jon, his face is as impenetrable as ever. _I think there's a lot about this place I can't explain_ , he'd said. As their eyes meet, that strange attraction fizzes and crackles again, and they each look away. _Affair,_ she thinks, inexplicably.

"You should borrow that one, actually," Jon says after a moment, nodding toward the book. "It's a copy of a text written by a maester around the time of Sir Jon the Dragon." 

"Have you read it?" Sansa wonders, paging through it. The pages are delicate and cracking; she is afraid to touch it. "Should you even _have_ this?" she adds, running a finger over a stained drawing of a human heart. 

"Probably not," Jon admits. "But it's just a copy, anyway. It's not an original. It's only two hundred years old, at most." He goes back to rifling through the papers. "And yeah, I've read it. I've read all of them." 

"They're all about magic," Sansa observes carefully, setting the book down and turning back to the shelf. 

_A lot I've spent years trying to explain._

She doesn't look back at Jon, but is aware of his gaze as though the tips of his fingers are grazing the nape of her neck. She swallows and pulls out another book. "I thought you studied weapons, and armor." 

"I study a lot of things." 

Jon's voice is quiet, cautiously even. Sansa puts the book back on the shelf and gets to her feet again, and comes eye-level with the shelf full of texts on the Targaryens. 

"Even the Targaryens? I thought you wanted no parts of them." 

Jon comes to stand behind her; he reaches past her and slides one of the texts off the shelf, and flips it open to a page marked with a post-it. 

"Not the Targaryens, but what the Targaryens meant," he explains, pointing to the page. He snaps the book closed, and hands it to her. "You should read that chapter." 

He is too close, and the cottage is too poorly-lit; Sansa thinks again, _affair_ , and clears her throat as she turns from him quickly. To him these close quarters must be meaningless, but she is still learning the shapes and edges of her want for him, and until she knows all of it, she cannot properly hide it. She needs to better understand it so she can better wall it off in her mind, designate it a danger zone, and know how wide of a berth to give it in her mind. 

"More magic?" she wonders when she's found her voice again. When she's suitably far away, more than an arm's length, she turns back to face him. He shoves his hands in his jean pockets and looks away, shrugging his shoulders. 

"I don't know what to call it," he admits. "But you said it yourself—if you want to understand Northern history, you follow the stories. And there are a lot of stories about magic. At a certain point, you can't ignore it anymore." 

Sansa thinks of those strange visions, and it's on the tip of her tongue to ask him again, but then there's a clatter and she drops the book in surprise; Renly is there in the doorway, soaking wet. 

"It's fucking _pouring_ ," he complains, "and I locked myself out of the fucking armory." 

He goes into Jon's bathroom like he belongs there and emerges with a towel, rubbing it over his black hair, and Sansa is suddenly keenly aware that she is in a place that she does not belong at all. She crouches down to snatch up the book, face flaming, grateful for the dim light. _Affair, affair, affair._ The misplaced, misused word taunts her like a spell, a chant, a hymn.

"Oh, I ought to be going," she stammers. "I was just leaving, anyway." 

"You might as well wait out the storm—" Renly begins, looking bemused, but Sansa pushes past him to the door. 

"I really should be going; I've intruded enough," she blusters.

Jon hands her a thick folder, and, after a moment, grabs one of the jackets from the row of hooks behind the door. It's a rain jacket with a hood, navy, and lined with cotton.

"I don't have any umbrellas," he explains, looking embarrassed, before peering out the window into the rain. "This'll keep the book and papers from getting wet." 

There's an awkward moment as Sansa sets down everything on the counter and slips into his jacket; Jon watches, but Renly is already turning toward the refrigerator, complaining that there's no food, and it's a small mercy not to have Renly's shrewd blue eyes on her at this moment. The jacket smells like Jon, she realises with a pang, and is too big for her. It envelops her like an embrace. She folds the book and papers under her arms, the jacket crossed over it, and flashes a grateful smile at Jon. 

"Thank you so much. I'll return these as soon as possible," she promises. Jon seems as uncomfortable as she is, and as eager for her to leave, too. 

"Don't worry about it," he begins, but she's already ducking out into the inky night. 

She feels ashamed of herself, she feels at odds with everything. When she is nearly back at the scholar's keep again, Sansa at last looks over her shoulder. The rain comes down hard on the hood of the jacket, like little fingertips drumming along the top of Sansa's head and shoulders, and smears the golden light coming from Jon's cottage.

She sees two silhouettes; she sees Renly pulling Jon to sit at the table; she turns before she can see anything else. 


	7. he keeps it like a secret

**Present**

"Again? Are you serious?" 

Renly grabs Jon's arm, dragging him to sit down with him at the table. He knocks aside a pair of gardening shears, and a book thumps on the carpet as he kicks out one of the chairs and, at the same time, pushes up Jon's sleeve, revealing the raw, tender pink skin. 

Jon yanks his hand out of Renly's grip and jerks down his sleeve. Renly shoots an accusatory look at the hearth, as though it has broken a promise to Renly; as though it is to blame for his foolish, dangerous behavior. Jon scowls and snatches the burn ointment from the table and makes a show of smearing it on his arm. "You need to get out more. Talk to more people. Pick up a hobby," Renly is saying. Jon winces at the sting and odor of the ointment. 

"Talking to people is my job," he reminds him. Renly rolls his eyes and settles back in the chair, toweling his hair off some more. 

"You know, if a woman ever saw that, she'd want to know what the fuck is up with you," he points out, like he always does, his voice muffled by the towel. "Say, for example, a woman like Dr. Stark." 

Renly thinks it's funny to refer to her as Dr. Stark. Jon grits his teeth. 

"When would a woman have the time, when you barge in like this?" he counters acidly, and Renly whips off the towel, grinning. 

"Aha! So you admit you were hoping that encounter would conclude in nakedness," he rejoices. "The truth comes out." 

Jon will not say what he was hoping to get out of that encounter. 

"The way you say 'nakedness' could turn a man celibate," Jon mutters. 

"Whatever." Renly sighs. "Is it anywhere else?"

"No," Jon snaps, and he gets up from his chair. 

"Good. Maybe that one'll go away in time for you to get laid this century," Renly reflects. "As long as you don't go getting more of them. Though maybe sweet little Sansy would appreciate your complicated nature. We saw the ex-fiance, after all. _God_ , did he look dull, or what? I mean, super pretty, but so... soft. And, like, _moist_. Ugh." Renly shudders in distaste. "I like a harder man, myself, and I'm betting she does too." 

"I'm not sleeping with her," Jon says tiredly, as he begins washing his few dishes. 

"Well, you've got to sleep with someone," Renly reasons, yawning. "It's been way too long, as far as I can tell, and I seriously thought you were going to claw Pretty Boy's eyes out over Sansy. You have some _frustration_ to work out." 

Jon hears Renly laugh. "My offer still stands, but honestly, the more I think on it, the more I want to retract it. I just sense you'd make it emotional and be super weird about it." 

"There's also the fact that I'm not gay," Jon points out, but now he's half-smiling. 

When Renly first propositioned him, he was embarrassed and shocked, and after a week of avoiding Renly, he finally decided to take him aside and explain, very clearly, that he had no interest in men. Renly had simply looked at him blankly before bursting out laughing. _'Oh my god, you swot,'_ he had roared, _'you've been worrying about that all week, haven't you?'_

Since then, Renly has regularly, half-jokingly reminded him of his proposition, but there's never any weight behind it. 

"Eh, everyone is, at least a little bit," Renly says flippantly, getting to his feet. "Whatever. I'm going to go home, have some wine, and fantasize that Sansy's ex-fiance's got a hot, angry brother who comes up north to bring his brother back and stop him from, like, stalking Sansa. Mmph. Doe eyes and abs. Delicious, rock-hard abs."

"Spare me," Jon says shortly. "Please."

"Look, if I have to watch you undressing Dr. Stark with your eyes every time she walks by, you have to listen to the broader details of my fantasies," Renly informs him as he tosses the towel into Jon's laundry basket. "Anyway, like I was saying—rock-hard abs, but tall and slender. Not too buff, not too dainty. Bit of a bad-boy vibe, I'm thinking. Ooh, and longish hair. Like yours, but, you know, intentional. Passionate, a fiery temper, and expensive cashmere, but boots, too. Think expensive, fancy woodsman... and when he comes after his brother, he and I lock eyes, like this." Renly grabs Jon's shoulders and gives him a blazing, breathless look, before shoving him back. Jon rolls his eyes. "And then we shag in the armory. Glorious." 

"Is there anywhere _to_ shag in the armory?" Jon wonders, drying a dish. Renly snorts. 

"See, this is why I could never actually bone you, Snow. You'd want it to be meaningful and romantic, like in the wildflowers, or something." Renly gags. "Up against a wall, surrounded by weapons and armor, or not at all, is what I say." 

Jon shakes his head as Renly cuffs him upside the head. "Anyway." He grabs Jon's arm again and pushes up the sleeve, and now it's his turn to shake his head. "You've got to stop this, Jon." 

The joking is gone from his voice, and Jon avoids Renly's eyes as he pulls back. 

"Back off, Renly." His usual tactic with Renly's needling is to brush him off or dismiss him, but now he levels Renly with a warning look. He knows Renly does it out of friendship, but Jon does not follow orders, or accept ultimatums.

"Oof, _there's_ some fire for you. Save that for Sansy—she could use a little of that, after Wet Blanket." He grins. "You know what? Maybe you _do_ want to do it against a wall. You're full of secrets and surprises, after all." 

* * *

_There are two branches of magic: life magic, and death magic. Both are transformational in nature, as magic, by definition, introduces change. The most well-known example of life magic is that of the Targaryens, who were purported to draw life from fire_ —

Sansa's mobile is vibrating again with texts, and she tears her gaze from the book. 

Willas [11:13pm]: Can't we just talk? 

Willas [11:14pm]: You never even gave me closure. You never let me give you closure.

Willas [11:14pm]: There's so much I want to explain. 

Willas [11:14pm]: So much I need to explain. 

Sansa turns the mobile phone over so the screen is facing down, and massages her temples. 

Willas keeps talking of explanations—as if there is anything that truly needs to be explained. They both were there for the decline and the fallout, weren't they? And to talk about it would not bring closure, but instead another opportunity to reopen that door. Another opportunity for her will to give out; another opportunity for her guilt and doubts to creep in like ivy, pernicious and poisonous. 

And it's funny, to think of ivy as a force of evil, but she blames Jon Snow's book. 

She has read the same page over and over again over the last two days, because there is something about it that is gripping, something that is infuriating, that feels like a personal affront. There is something about it that enrages and confuses her. Maybe it's just because in all the fairytales, in all the stories, nature is a force of life, of good; and fire, traditionally speaking, is a source of pain and ruin. 

_The most well-known example of life magic is that of the Targaryens, who were purported to draw life from fire; similarly, the Druids of the north represent the best-known example of death magic. Their control of the life cycle of living things, flora and fauna alike—_

Her face flames and she slams the book shut again. It is ridiculous to be mad about this, because there's no such thing as magic anyway. It is ridiculous to feel like this book is suggesting her Druid of the Wolfswood is some sort of goddess of death; some sort of villain. There's no such thing as magic.

(Right?) 

(Except...)

( _Except._..)

Maybe the stress and the lack of sleep have officially addled her brain. Here she is, getting personally offended by a book about a thing that doesn't exist; here she is, trying desperately not to think about Renly pulling Jon Snow toward him; here she is, creeping around those strange visions in her mind like they are a many-headed dog she must tiptoe past. 

And maybe what she's really mad about is Willas, at the heart of it all. She resents him for taking up space in her life, still; she resents him for going about this so passively, with guilt-tripping texts and lush but uninspired roses. It's not just that it's claustrophobic—there is that niggling sense of failure. Though she knows Willas has behaved inappropriately, she still feels at fault. She still feels like she has failed, no matter what she does. The sense of it stalks her like a black dog, haunting her shadows. 

Sansa turns off her mobile and bitterly gets ready for bed. She turns out the light and slips beneath the covers, and as her mind quiets, she realises that she has the oddest sense of feeling like she's forgetting something; she has the oddest sense that there is one puzzle piece she has overlooked, though she was unaware she was putting together a puzzle. There is an itch in her brain, like a word is on the tip of her tongue. She turns the light back on, and opens Jon's book again. 

_who were purported to draw life from fire_

She stares at the ceiling. 

What is she forgetting? What is she not seeing? ...What is she missing?

**Past**

At first their journey feels like a dream. They traipse through the land, stowing away in farms and sneaking, in disguise, to markets when they are hungry. They must ration their gold carefully, but it is hard to feel anything but infinitely rich when she is with Jon. Everything is gilded in magic dust: when they curl up together beneath his rough cloak each night—be it hidden in a stable or beneath the open velvety night sky—she feels his heat against her back and something hitches in her, and the world looks beautiful. Though they wander the land aimlessly, she feels, inexorably, like they are hurtling toward something beautiful, something perfect.

But summer is ending and autumn is here, tinging the trees golden and then brown. The nights grow colder, fast. They start waking up to glittering frost and their breath misting in the air around them. They might go hungry, but Sansa begins taking control of her powers: one night in an orchard, she fills the trees with apples. She only means to do one tree, but she has been thinking more and more of the feel of Jon's chest against her back, of how their touch is comfortable now, of how the night before, she awoke in the middle of the night and made him stir and their eyes met in the darkness and she felt like another wall had come down.

So when dawn blooms on the orchard of trees laden with apples, though the harvest is ended, things take a turn. They hear mutterings at the market about witchcraft, about a Druid wandering the woods with golden-apple hair and a god of Death on her heels. Townspeople's eyes linger on Sansa's bright hair, and she takes to wearing her hood, though this only seems to draw their suspicion more. They hear mutterings of a lost princess, stolen from her tower by a bastard and a traitor, and Jon starts wearing his hood up, too. When she wakes in the night and turns to him, he feigns sleep, and the loneliness stretches out like unfriendly crowds around her.

It is when they stop at an inn on the road one night, because they are hungry and aching and the night smells like snow, that it happens. 

In exchange for one gold dragon, the innkeeper has let them have broth and bread and a place to sleep in the stables. Sansa wants a bed, more than anything, but Jon reminds her that the gold is not infinite, and the winter is long. They sit in the corner of the inn, at the farthest end of the table, in quiet. The tables are littered with other patrons, mostly hardened men who grunt more than speak. At the other end of the room, the hearth crackles and spits with fire, and Sansa wants more than anything to sit by its warmth, but even that has become too much of a risk. 

"...The Tyrell son," they hear a man muttering nearby. Sansa freezes, holding her breath; Jon's dark eyes go to the man but he never misses a beat, he just keeps chewing. Nothing on his face changes. He has always been better with secrets than she is.

"Aye, three hundred dragons," another man says quietly, like they're discussing the weather. Sansa's mouth fills with saliva like she might vomit. "Six hundred if you bring back the bastard knight too."

"Livin' or dead?" 

"Don't matter, I expect. What's a cripple mean to do with a live knight, anyway?" The man shrugs, dips his bread in the trencher. "Reckon he just wants to know the job's done; and word is, that bastard's deadly. I wouldn't want him live, if it was me." 

"What's a cripple to do with a live princess, then?" the other man counters archly. 

"Just 'cause his leg's bust, it don't mean his cock is." 

Quiet, casual laughter. 

"Heard she's a witch." 

"Can't be. Why'd the cripple want her, then? If it was me, I'd thank the old gods for my lucky escape." 

"Maybe he's hoping she can cure him."

Sansa stares at Jon, and he calmly returns her gaze before looking down again. 

(He always looks away; he always pulls away. She is so tired, tired of being hungry, tired of sleeping on the ground; she is tired of Jon pulling away from her. Is this to be the rest of her life—a life of running, of wandering; a life of waiting and hoping and drawing pathetic bursts of life from every brush of his fingertips?) 

Her eyes are burning and there's a lump in her throat, but she finishes her bread because she knows she'll regret it later if she doesn't. Wordlessly she and Jon slip out of the inn, and around to the stables. The moon is full, and edges them in silver as they walk. Sansa realises Jon is gripping her wrist, pulling her. 

The stables are warm, at least, but the air is humid and rank, and Sansa drops into the hay without looking at Jon, and bends over, burying her face in her folded arms on top of her knees. She hears Jon sit down beside her and exhale. 

"What will we do?" she whispers, her voice wet. 

"We need to wait for the rumors to pass," Jon whispers in response, "I told you. Once the winter's over and everyone's forgotten about us, we'll have more choices. I can find work somewhere. We'll survive." 

"And then what?" 

Sansa realises now that the Tyrell's reward is not what upsets her. It's not even the hunger or the weariness, or the fact that she misses her family, though those do not help matters. "Then we just...continue on? Forever?" she asks, her voice muffled by the fabric of her cloak. She lifts her head and gets to her feet, because something is welling up inside her, and she cannot afford to blow their cover now. She hears the rustle of hay as Jon gets to his feet; she hears the horses nickering behind them. She stares at the wall of the stable and fists her hands. 

"My lady," Jon begins softly, and Sansa's face flushes and she turns to face Jon. 

"It's _Sansa_ , I told you," she says in a rush, her cheeks wet. Jon's eyes look like coal. "You've said it before; why do we go backwards now?" 

Jon watches her cautiously, but his face is so impassive, so unreadable. She thought she knew how to read him but it's impossible. She blinks and his face blurs with her silvery tears. 

"I must not—" he falters and looks away. "Sansa," he continues now, more carefully, and everything in her bursts to life at the way his voice curls around her name, "you do not know what you are asking of me." 

She blinks and he comes back into focus again. His brows draw together and he tilts his head as though she has struck him. He is pleading with her; he is begging her for something. 

"I'm asking you to call me by my name. We share a bed every night, Jon—yet you make me feel like you are my servant." 

He gives a quick shake of his head; it is almost like a flinch. And then he lets out a low, callous laugh. 

"I should be," he says bitterly. "I beg of you, let me leave that wall up—at least until we are no longer wandering, sleeping on hay," he pleads. 

"I want no walls. I thought we tore them down," Sansa whispers. "Now you put them back up when I need you more than ever. We are alone in this world save for each other. Why would you make me feel more alone?" 

Her voice is pathetic; she is pleading, too, and she wishes she did not have to. 

But when she meets Jon's eyes there is fire, and all the hairs rise to attention along her skin. His breathing is tight and shallow as he looks down at her. "You said," she reminds him, because she must speak, and the look on his face makes her blood pound in her ears, "that you would walk through fire for me." 

"Aye," he breathes, and she watches his eyes darken. "I would." 

"Then come to me and say my name, and tear down this wall." 

"You _are_ a witch," he observes raggedly, and then he is approaching her and she draws in a sharp breath and steps back, reflexively, her back against the wall. "For I find myself doing whatever you say." 

His lips brush hers, his fingertips sliding into her hair as he pulls her close, and he breathes, _Sansa_ , against her lips like he is casting a spell. 


	8. snapping tethers

**Present**

Sansa ventures forth from her flat a few days later with a mind to go for a walk and return Jon's book and jacket—and, in all honesty, to pick his brain about the page that he bookmarked. 

After many very late nights doing her own research, she's found a few odd things, and it turns out that Jon is not the only one who has noticed the thread of magic running through northern history, and he's not the only one who's following it closely, either. The internet is full of speculation, and while much of it can be accounted for by the base of scholars who are vehemently and creepily obsessed with the Targaryens, there are just enough legitimate scholars interested in the topic to give Sansa pause. She even recognises a few names that she respects, such as a scholar from Vale's biology department who is studying unusual plant phenomena throughout northern history, following this thread of supposed magic. The Wolfswood even comes up in this body of research, surprisingly frequently. It is strange to think that Sansa has spent years studying the Wolfswood for the Druid, and yet, this is a facet of research she has only barely encountered. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of scholars who are seeing reality through a different lens than she has, than the rest of the world has. Maybe Jon's heard of it all already, but if he has, she'd like to know about it.

_...the primary example of this plant to ash phenomenon is seen in the Wolfswood forest, a national park and sanctuary space that contains birch barrens, as well as petrified specimens of oaks, beeches, maples, pines..._

_...samples of Northern soil, specifically those taken from Winterfell Castle, demonstrate unusual levels of ash and cinder components [fig. 37]..._

_...the lack of seasonality to parts of Northern geography in recent history (approx. thirty years, though estimates vary)..._

It's soothing. Maybe there _is_ some biological explanation for what happened in the Wolfswood. Maybe she and Jon can be a part of understanding this biological phenomenon, and can study its impact on northern history. Maybe they can collaborate.

There's no such thing as magic; there is only science that has not yet been explained. And even as a secret, shameful part of her is disappointed by this certainty, her rational mind is calmed by it. Because she was beginning to think strange things—things as strange as the visions she has had—and it's a relief to be able to put those strange speculations away. There's probably also a rational, scientific explanation for her visions. Yes, it all neatly falls into place, and there's no need to worry, or be afraid. 

In addition to this breakthrough, she's also come to a more personal decision.

She is going to be single forever. 

(When she told Arya of this decision, Arya laughed so hard that Sansa had to hang up on her.)

("Oh my _god_ , you are _so_ melodramatic. I'm sorry. I love you, deeply, but you are," Arya had wheezed, ringing her back just to inform her of this, and Sansa had hung up on her again.)

("I cannot stop thinking about a gay man and I'm being quite literally hunted by my ex-fiance, and I don't think we need to cover the events that led me here. _Clearly_ , men are not working out for me," Sansa had countered after ringing Arya back again, feeling nettled and angry, surrounded by printouts of journal articles on Northern soil samples and electromagnetic readings taken from surrounding peaks. "Men have never worked out for me. They're always either predatory or..." 

She had trailed off. 

"Or useless and smothering, like a wet, mouldy blanket?" Arya had offered up glibly, making Sansa cringe. It seems needlessly cruel to describe Willas that way, even if it is, on a visceral level, how she feels. Like she's thrashing around to be free of him, like he's weighing her down. Maybe she is categorically too selfish for a real relationship. Maybe all of her daydreams have spoiled her for anything else. "Listen, we all think about people we shouldn't, sometimes. And maybe you're only into this gay guy because he's safe? I mean, what would happen if you found out this guy wasn't gay? What if he were bi?" Arya had pressed, sensing Sansa's hesitation. "He'd be a possibility, then. And you'd have a choice to make about whether to get your hopes up again or not. I mean, it's honestly not surprising at all. Maybe he is just a safe place for all of your romantic urges to laser-focus themselves.")

So Sansa walks toward Jon's cottage, chewing on this thought. Arya might have a point, but the reality is that Jon is gay, and the other reality, the one she isn't sharing so explicitly, is that he is the only man that has caused this kind of lust to bloom within her—ever—and therefore her body is clearly sending her a message. Sex—and romance, and love—are obviously beyond her reach, and it's the universe's cruel sense of humor in play that she is so utterly driven by romance and love. 

Ergo, giving up on it is her only option. 

(She can still hear Arya laughing, as though she's still on the phone with her.)

Sansa knocks on Jon's door briskly. Making a decision has always made her feel better, even if it's a sad one. Besides, celibacy could be quite fun. She won't need to get those pesky waxes anymore, will she? She won't need to worry so much about her weight and her cellulite, and the status of her knickers drawer. Her budget will absolutely open up, as she will no longer need to dedicate quite so much of her income to being acceptable to the male persuasion. It's a responsible, financial decision, really. 

Jon's not answering, and Sansa peers through the thick, mottled glass of his front window, but it's dark. 

"Looking for Jon?" 

Gilly's walking by, wearing Sam's large straw hat, galoshes, and oversized gardening gloves. She's pulling a little green wagon filled with bundled weeds, and Sansa smiles and waves.

"Oh, yes. I have to return his book and coat—he let me borrow both the other day, when there was a downpour," Sansa explains, holding both objects up. Gilly's brown eyes linger on the jacket. "Any idea of where I might find him?"

"He sometimes goes into town on the days he's not giving tours," Gilly explains, still eying the jacket. Sansa feels oddly exposed. _Don't worry, I know he's gay_ , she wants to reassure Gilly, as Gilly seems to feel protective of Jon. "He likes to do his grocery shopping and run errands," she adds, finally tearing her gaze from the jacket. "You might catch him in town. It's not that big; calling it a 'town' is kind of cute, really." 

"Oh, I wouldn't want to interrupt his time with Renly," Sansa says smoothly, to show Gilly she's understood, but Gilly frowns. 

"Renly? I'm sure Jon gets enough of Renly during the workweek, to be honest. And anyway, I think this is Renly's spa day, as he calls it," she says, looking amused. "Well, anyway, it's not long to get into Winter Town. You could even walk," she continues, and she starts pulling the wagon again, and gestures for Sansa to walk with her. Sansa feels embarrassed, like she has revealed too much of herself, so she searches for a new topic. 

(But—during the work week? What does she mean by that?)

"Looks like you've been busy," she remarks, looking at the wagon full of weeds. Gilly sighs. 

"Oh, _god._ You have no idea. For some reason, every garden in this bloody castle has decided to choose _now_ —the beginning of autumn—to burst into bloom again," she rants, and Sansa sucks in a shuddering breath, thoughts of Jon and Renly put out of her mind.

Gilly doesn't seem to notice. "I don't know what to do with all these bloody roses, and in the greenhouse, it turns out there's a peach tree, and it's been there for a long time and no one's realised it's a peach tree. It's literally never given fruit—not even Sam knew. Of course, he was so excited," she continues, as they reach a wooden shed. "Because apparently there were records of peaches at Winterfell at some point, and he made a whole study of their food, you know, and has always wanted to know where the peaches came from."

Gilly takes off her hat and wipes her sweaty brow, and smudges dirt along her skin. "I _swear_ , the number of conversations we've had about those peaches... even my patience was honestly at its end. Like, look, Sam, they must have had some trade route—we'll never know! Let it go! And then, of course, as though the castle's alive, it's got to go and show me up." 

Sansa stares at the smudge of dirt. "What, have I got something in my hair?" Gilly wonders, self-consciously brushing at her hair, and Sansa shakes herself out of her reverie and reaches up to wipe Gilly's skin. 

"Sorry, I'm a little out of it this morning," she says. "That's really odd. Has this ever happened before? With the plants, I mean." 

Gilly looks thoughtful, chewing her lip. 

"Honestly, no. Not to this degree. I mean, you get the odd blooms now and then," Gilly hedges, looking around them, "but it's really like we had a sudden spring crammed into a week or two here." She smiles, then. "Ever since you arrived, actually. The castle must sense there's a pretty girl nearby," she adds. 

Sansa forces a laugh and waves her hand as though to say, _oh stop_ , but her keen mind is already working.

"Please. Um, you said Jon would probably be in Winter Town?" 

"Yeah, like I said, it's such a little village that I'm sure you could run into him, if you wanted," Gilly says with a shrug as she unlocks the shed. "It's like one of those quaint villages where everyone's known everyone all their lives, and you won't find a Starbucks to save your life." 

"Thanks. You know, I think I'm going to go find him after all." 

"Good luck. Watch out for rain," Gilly says, looking up at the increasingly murky sky. Sansa thanks her and turns to go. "Oh, and I knocked on your door earlier, but I think you were asleep. We're all having a get-together tonight. Just dinner and drinks, that sort of thing. Sam talked even Jon into going, so it should be a big group of us. You should join us." 

Sansa wants to decline. She is tired, and strung-out, and not only that, she's on the verge of understanding something big about northern history, something that might lead her to her princess. But she has always liked people, and she has always sensed that her melodrama heightens and her mood plummets when she doesn't get out enough, so she accepts, making Gilly grin and clap, before continuing on.

She feels like she's had too much caffeine. She is jittery and uncomfortable in her own body as she leaves Winterfell through the hunter's gate. 

Winterfell sits on the highest hill around, and in its shadow, the village of Winter Town perches, all gabled roofs and crumbling stone and narrow, winding streets. The morning is misty and chill but she doesn't notice as she begins walking. A strange sense of urgency is rising. If they really are in the midst of one of these strange biological phenomena, then they have a prime opportunity for data collection. 

And Sansa doesn't want to miss a thing.

Rain clouds gather, darkening the sky, and when Sansa is halfway to the village, the world begins to shimmer with rain. She's got no choice but to put on Jon's jacket over her own very un-water-proof rose-coloured coat, and she refuses to inhale the scent of his skin that envelopes her as she draws the hood over her hair. Celibate—she is celibate! She is a celibate scholar, totally engrossed in understanding a key biological phenomenon, and she does not care about men, gay or otherwise. 

The village is sleepy and old, and highly quaint, just like Gilly promised. The cobblestone streets rise and fall, twist and turn, and even the high street is just a little too narrow to comfortably hold two-way traffic, so that the few cars that trundle along the road have to pause to allow each other to pass. The buildings are all stone or whitewashed, and black lacquered doors lead into tiny, sleepy shops. Sansa pokes her head into each one, but there's no sign of Jon, and by the time she reaches the end of the high street, she feels embarrassed and ridiculous—and quite sodden and cold. Her urgency now feels silly and childish, as her own emotions so often feel to her after they have peaked.

There's a cafe at the very end of the high street, and, feeling a little deflated, Sansa decides to stop in, have a latte, and wait for the rain to let up. _You are so melodramatic_ , Arya's voice rings in her head, and she cringes and thinks, _I know, and I wish I weren't_.

The bell tinkles as she steps inside. The ancient wooden floor slopes with age and creaks beneath her shoes. A round-faced, heavyset man wearing a badge that says **_Hot Pie :)_** is bustling behind the counter, where there is a glass case of pastries shaped like animals. Only a few patrons sit at little tables around the cafe, quietly working at laptops or reading the paper, and Sansa feels all eyes on her as she enters. 

"Welcome! What can I get you?" Hot Pie beams at her.

Sansa orders a latte and, since she is now celibate and doesn't have to care for her appearance quite so much, she orders a slice of lemoncake to go, too. It's not ladylike to eat it from the paper bag while she waits for her latte, but she does, with a sort of vindictive glee. All those years spent worrying about whether she's pretty enough or thin enough for a man—what a waste! Arya was right all along. She could have been eating lemoncake with her fingers and not bothering with all the hassle, and she'd still be in the same place. 

"Sansa." She chokes on a bite of lemoncake and turns to find Willas entering the cafe, shaking out a Burberry umbrella, his smooth skin flushed and his slender shoulders rising and falling with exertion. Sansa can feel eyes on them again, with interest, as she clears her throat. Willas looks exhilarated. "I saw you walking in and out of shops," he explains, "and I thought you might be looking for me, so I ran after you." 

Sansa forces a smile. Her fingers are sticky with lemoncake and the cafe, which seemed so cute, now seems claustrophobic and oppressive. There's a new charge to the air, some vibrating energy that makes her skin hum with static. 

"I was actually looking for a colleague, Willas," she says at last, cautious as always with her words, biting back her anger. She wipes her fingers on a napkin and watches Willas' doe-brown eyes settle on the navy windbreaker she wears over her own coat. It is not the sort of thing that Sansa would ever own, and Willas knows her well enough to know that. She's also clearly wearing it over her own coat; there can be no other conclusion except that this is a jacket that a man has loaned to Sansa.

She sees understanding pass over Willas' face, then acceptance. She sees him swallow. She resists the urge to reassure him, because if he wants to assume she is having an affair—

—there's that word again—

—then perhaps it makes this easier. After all, it would not actually be an affair. They are over. She has returned the ring; she has canceled the venue; her dress has been returned to the shop. 

"You didn't return any of my calls," he says quietly. "And I was wondering if you got them." 

She senses the barista's gaze lingering on them. She hates making scenes and now they're making another scene—because embarrassing her at work wasn't bad enough. The paper bag crinkles in her sudden fist. She cannot say precisely why she feels so infuriated by this breach of her privacy, this total disregard of her preferences, but perhaps she's been feeling more hormonal lately. 

(And even that thought makes her angry with herself, and her skin prickles again with that sense of static. Why must she diminish, why must she explain, every flash of anger that she has, every emotion? Why must she always label her every feeling as inappropriate? Fine, perhaps she _is_ melodramatic, but could the same not be said for every arsehole in history that started a war? Why is _her_ melodrama cause for laughter and a man's is cause for a regime change? Why is Willas' pursuit of her more valid than her desire to run from him?) 

Willas steps closer and sets a hand on Sansa's arm, and Sansa thinks, furiously, _why?_ _Why_ is he doing this, _why_ does he still think this is acceptable, _why_ is she allowing this?

And then a few things happen at once: the lights flicker and then there's a surging sound, like a bag's been popped; patrons in the cafe are complaining; and Sansa hears the barista, Hot Pie, say "Oh, thank goodness, just the person who can help. Jon!"

Sansa looks outside. Jon is standing outside of the cafe in the rain, walking his bicycle. Bags of groceries sit in the wire basket on his rear wheel guard, and he's soaking wet. "Jon, wait!" Hot Pie calls, opening the door to the cafe. "Perfect timing! You are magic, d'you know that? We've just had a power outage—can you help me with the fuse box? Goodness, it's like the universe knew I would need you." 

Willas' hand is still closed around Sansa's elbow as Jon shoulders into the cafe, leaning his bike against the wall. Across the cafe, his eyes meet hers, but he doesn't look surprised to see her. If anything, he seems angry, and the look he shoots Willas is icy enough to make Willas swallow, but his grip on Sansa's elbow tightens. "Sorry, everyone," Hot Pie announces, leading Jon around the counter to the back. "Just a moment and we'll have the power back on. I tell you, Jon, today has been the oddest day..." 

"That's that knight," Willas realises. Sansa wrests her arm from his hold and tries not to flinch at the hurt look on his face. 

"It is, and he happens to be the colleague I was looking for," she says. She hears Jon and Hot Pie going down wooden steps to a basement as she and Willas stare each other down. 

Willas' eyes linger, again, on Jon's jacket, just as the cotton lining of the jacket's hood brushes her skin, soft as a kiss, and Sansa thinks, again, _affair_. 

"Right," he says unsteadily, his gaze still on the jacket. "Sansa—"

The lights flicker and come back on; Willas steps back as Jon emerges from the basement, looking hassled. 

"I need to speak to Jon," Sansa reminds him, pulling further back. Willas nods. 

"Fine. But... Have you gotten my calls?" 

Sansa hears the floorboards creak behind her, and she is suddenly hyperaware of Jon's presence behind her.

"Yes, I have," she says. 

"Good." He clears his throat. "Right. I'll leave you to it." 

Willas backs out of the cafe, and in the rain he opens his umbrella, looking like a Burberry advert, and shoots her one last look of longing through the cafe windows before continuing. Sansa tears her eyes from the windows and looks back at Jon. 

"And Sansa, your latte is ready!" Hot Pie says proudly, reading her name off and sliding the paper cup across the counter. He looks between her and Jon. "Do you two know each other?" 

"She works at Winterfell too," Jon explains. "Visiting scholar." 

"Ah, one of Tarly's brood," Hot Pie observes pleasantly. "Glad to have you here, Sansa. What a lovely name. Jon is more or less my savior. He always fixes things for me; he's a good person for you to know. Absolute life-saver. Anyway, welcome!" 

Hot Pie bustles off to the cash register after Sansa smiles and thanks him, leaving Sansa and Jon more or less alone. 

"I was actually looking for you," Sansa says. "That's why I'm here in the first place. Gilly said you were in town." 

Jon's grey eyes linger on his jacket, on the way it drapes on her shoulders, the way the too-long sleeves hang over her hands. And then he spots his book, pinned under her arm. "I think we need to talk. And, um, I wanted to return your jacket, too." She begins to shuffle out of it, but Jon shakes his head. 

"Keep it for now, 'til you get back to the castle. I'm already soaked anyway." 

Over Jon's shoulder she realises Hot Pie is peering at them with interest and texting on his mobile, and her face flames, so she drags her eyes back to Jon. His lashes are stuck together from the rain, his skin slick, the shoulders of his jacket damp. There's something about the red of his mouth, almost pretty, that makes her think of the peach tree at Winterfell. 

"Walk and talk?" Jon offers, gesturing for the door. "I've got perishables." 

"Walk and talk," Sansa agrees. 


	9. i am his and he is mine

**Present**

It's jarring how the gloom seems brighter now. Perhaps just enough of the sun has come through to brighten the fog. Either way, Sansa clutches her latte as she and Jon walk along the high street together, Jon's bicycle clicking as he walks it, and she finds herself thinking the day's lovely. 

"Do you fix a lot of things for that barista?" Sansa asks, because it feels odd to just jump into discussing the existence of magic—especially now, as they are walking along this street, surrounded by decidedly non-magical things: trucks and cars passing them, Jon's mobile poking out of his back pocket, plastic grocery bags rustling as the bicycle goes over bumps and cracks.

"Hot Pie? Oh, I guess," Jon says with a shrug, looking embarrassed. "I sit and work in that cafe sometimes and he's a little..." His gaze slides away. "A little helpless, I guess," he finishes guiltily.

They walk another block before Jon speaks again. "I'm assuming you didn't plan to run into your ex?"

"No, I was looking for you, I told you," Sansa reminds him. Jon's brows flick up.

"Oh, I just... never mind."

"What?" she presses, because he looks embarrassed again.

"I assumed you just wanted a buffer from your ex on your way back to Winterfell," he admits. He shifts his grip on the handlebars and his sleeve rides up slightly, and Sansa sees angry pink skin, like a burn.

"No, I don't need a buffer against Willas. He's not... he's not predatory," Sansa replies. Now it's her turn to feel embarrassed. She wonders if Jon is used to playing the buffer for women, and she feels bad that he assumes she would use him like that. "Anyway, no, I actually did come into town specifically to look for you. Gilly said you were here, and..." she holds up the book, "this one was a little odd."

"You read it?"

Jon looks oddly exhilarated.

"Yes, and fell down a two-day rabbit hole of research. You're not the only one who's noticed this thread of magic running through northern history. It seems like it's tied to the plantlife and climate here in the north, and whatever natural phenomenon's caused it all is happening again—Gilly told me all sorts of plants are bursting into bloom—"

"—Even the peach tree," Jon finishes for her. He's looking at her, but then he looks ahead again, tearing his gaze reluctantly from her. "What do you make of the life and death magic?"

"The way it's described in this book?" she asks, wiggling Jon's book, and Jon nods. "Well, I was going to ask you that. That's why I've run out in the rain like an insane scholar," she explains with a self-deprecating grin, and Jon bites his lip against a grin of his own, to match.

They're leaving the confines of the village now, tracing the road back to Winterfell. The rain has turned to a fine mist, making Jon's hair curl damply at his neck and temples, but as Sansa is now celibate—hurrah! Lemon cakes whenever she wants them, and maybe she'll toss out her scale—which means there's no point to noticing such lovely details.

"I think," Jon begins slowly, "it was written by a lunatic obsessed with the Targaryens, but the only northern records of magic that are written down are on the Targaryens, so it's the best we've got. Obviously, the idea of fire magic as life magic is ridiculous," he reasons, and she glimpses the intense man who leads tours that are regularly sold out. He has a quiet passion for history—embers hinting at flames, or a coal that might burst into flame at any moment. "But the fact that this ...phenomenon... was viewed as death magic tells us something about how the northerners might've reacted to it at the time."

"So the spontaneous blooming of peach trees in a place that peach trees aren't native to might not have been welcomed," Sansa concludes, and Jon nods, eyes narrowed in thought.

"What I don't understand is the prevalence of fire magic. The plant magic—fine, that's easily explained," he says, waving his hand dismissively, the other controlling the bicycle, and she stifles a leap of pleasure in her belly at how his walls seem to be tumbling down, "and we've got the stories of what the Targaryen blood did—how fire couldn't harm them, how fire gave them power—but what's the practical expression of it? What's the thing that was _actually_ happening, that led to those stories?"

"Well, they dominated Westeros. One might say they decimated it," Sansa replies. "Perhaps people at the time wanted to attribute their conquering to some sort of magic."

"I don't know. That just..." Jon shakes his head. "That's not good enough for me. Because—well, did you finish the book?"

"Yes, though I admit there were some sections I skimmed," Sansa says, flipping through the book as they walk.

"You should read it all. Because there's a passage in there about the interaction of life and death magic, and that's what interests me."

"The interaction of it?"

"The author says that the two must never meet," Jon explains.

They're climbing a hill now, and Sansa is slightly out of breath, so she closes the book to focus on walking. "That each augments the other; that to have these kinds of magic meet is to break the very laws of magic. That it would bring about devastation and tragedy. He says it many times: _the two must never meet._ "

He seems to sense Sansa's wariness, because he continues. "What I want to know is, what's the basis for that claim? Because once I saw that passage, I started looking, and there's other odd references to it, throughout the northern tales. You know the tale of the wolf and the death witch—"

"—Of course, that's one of my references for the Druid," Sansa says excitedly. Jon nods.

"And it might have just been spawned by sightings of a woman in the woods with a pet," he concedes, "but there's other patterns. The apple orchard that went up in flames, and from then on, the orchard was haunted. That tale seems to have originated very locally; I'm almost positive it started here in Winter Town, actually. And then there's the tale of the God of Winter, who kidnapped a northern princess—"

"—And trapped her in a tree," Sansa finishes. 

She cannot help but think of that tree in the Wolfswood, surrounded by ash, and when she catches Jon's eye, she knows he is thinking of the very same tree. 

She hugs the book to her chest, suppressing a shiver. "And every time she leaves the tree is when the flowers bloom."

"It's one way they explain the strange things that happen here," Jon hedges, "but the God of Winter who stole her, he's always depicted as this dark, ashen presence. Not with snow, or ice, the way you might expect."

"Ash," Sansa murmurs, and Jon nods. "Like the end of fire. The end of life magic."

"Something happened, a thousand years ago, maybe more," Jon says, breath misting in the air. "Out of nowhere, these tales of life and death explode into being. There's no references to those tales at all before then—it's just stories of the Others, or the children of the forest—and then, all of a sudden, they all pop up everywhere."

"You want to understand what happened," Sansa concludes.

"I don't know what I want," Jon admits, and she is surprised by his candor, but he sounds almost feverish—or perhaps it's because they're climbing up the steep hill, and he's walking a bicycle weighed down with groceries. "It's not like looking for a needle in a haystack. It's like rummaging around in a haystack, wondering what it is I'm looking for."

"So this is your real area of study. And the weapons and armor—that's just a front."

"It's not a total front," Jon says with a grimace. "I've always loved weapons and armor, and knights, and battle."

"Does Renly know?" Sansa wonders, but Jon's face quite suddenly closes off. She can almost see it happening, like a door slamming shut. He goes from this open-hearted, honest Jon to the impenetrable, remote Jon she has been interacting with since she got here.

"Renly knows I'm interested in following northern stories," he says, and she realises he is speaking with care, with caution. He is hiding something—or is he? Is he merely uncomfortable with discussing details of his relationship? "But Renly's got to ensure everyone's doing their job, so he's more focused on the armor and weapons," he adds.

Sansa is filled with regret; she feels like she has undone something, or trod too far into the realm of the personal. She senses that she has scared Jon off. They walk in silence for a long time, as the silhouette of Winterfell sharpens before them, emerging from the mist like a ship.

They're approaching the hunter's gate, and Jon pauses under the arch and looks back at her. His gaze lingers on the way his jacket hangs at her shoulders, and she flushes.

"Oh, right, I meant to return this—" she begins shrugging out of it.

"—Keep it; it's still raining," Jon mutters, looking away hastily. He flexes his grip on the bicycle's curved handlebars; she can tell he is thinking very carefully about something.

"Oh, there you two are!"

Sam is wearing a bright yellow mack and matching galoshes; he pulls open the hunter's gate, beaming at them through the rain. "Are you both coming to our dinner party tonight? You promised, Jon," Sam reminds him, looking almost puppy-like, and Jon rolls his eyes.

"Yes, I'm coming," he reassures him. When Sam turns his puppy-like gaze on Sansa, she smiles at him.

"Of course I am," she promises.

"Thank goodness, it'll be much more fun like this," he beams. "Well, I'm off to the shop for some last minute groceries. See you both at five, for apertifs! We're having peach cocktails, in honor of the peach tree," he adds giddily, with a gallant flourish that makes Sansa smile even wider.

Sam gets into his car, and Jon holds the gate open for Sansa as they pass through. He checks his watch.

"I'd better get these into my fridge," he says awkwardly, nodding to the plastic grocery bags. 

"See you at five, then?" Sansa asks self-consciously, studying Jon and trying to tell if his sudden distance is all in her head or not. "I'd love to talk more about this," she adds, holding up the book. 

To her surprise, Jon's mouth twitches in a half smile, gone as quick as it's come—like glimpsing a ghost in a forest. 

"See you then," he confirms, and she watches him walk his bicycle back toward his cottage in the rain.

* * *

"Ugh, you are adorable," Renly greets Sansa when she enters the dining room in the scholar's keep. She can tell he's already had a peach apertif by the slight flush in his cheeks and the way his voice is just a little louder than usual. "Look at you. You just make everything more festive, don't you? Like a well-placed topiary," he continues loudly, looking at Jon like an invitation.

Jon is perched on a low bench by the merrily crackling hearth, paging through an old book. He's cleaned up since this morning, clad in dark jeans and a dark sweater. He looks up at Renly's insistence, and Sansa flushes. 

(She decided to go a little more dramatic with her makeup tonight, since she is, after all, forever single now; she is no longer trying to be appealing to men, but rather enjoying what she enjoys. Lemon-cake and lipstick, for fuck's sake. She thinks, again, of how she could have been doing this all along.) 

"Topiary," Jon repeats, his grey eyes lingering on Sansa before he looks skeptically at Renly, raising his brows. 

"You know, those shaved tree things," Renly explains with a sloppy wave, prodding Jon, before glancing at Sansa and winking, "not that I'm implying anything about your grooming habits, Sansy. I'm just saying, a topiary is always welcome, and so's Sansy."

"Oh my god," Jon mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose, but that's when Gilly swans into the dining room, bearing a lovely cranberry-glass coupe garnished with an herb. 

"For you," she says. Sansa can tell she's partaken of the cocktails too, because she looks a little more relaxed than usual. Sam is following her into the dining room, wearing an apron patterned with ducklings over his sweater-vest, as well as a chef's hat. 

"Sansa!" he beams, waving a spatula at her. "Oh, I'm so delighted you're here." 

"We all are," Renly says loudly. He pats the spot next to him on an elegant, dusty-rose gossip bench. "Come here and tell me _everything_ about your lost princess. I need to know all of it." 

To Sansa's slight surprise, Renly actually does want to hear about her research, in spite of being clearly tipsy, and he asks intelligent questions. Jon, listening from his little bench by the hearth, actually engages as well. As Sansa has another peach apertif, she feels her face grow warm, and she knows she should stop, as she's talking more than is technically polite, and she's also on her way to being tipsy—but then she also realises, as they're all sitting down to supper (a starter of bowls of consommé and popovers with strawberry butter; a surprising beef dish with cucumber and creme fraiche and dill on the side; elegantly-roasted potatoes), that this is the happiest she has been in as long as she can remember. 

She is surrounded by kind people who care about the same things that she does; who expect nothing from her except that she continue to be herself in the best possible way; who want her to be impolite and talk more; who will not make snide remarks about the blouse she chose or whether she's put on weight. Sam and Renly get into a shouting match about whether Florian the Fool was bisexual ("his name was Florian, that is a canonically bisexual name!" Renly argues; "th-that is not how sexuality works; you are _trolling_ me now, Renly," Sam sputters indignantly) and Sansa finds herself meeting Jon's eyes, irresistibly, and she relishes the sly twitch of his lips that he offers with a decadence that only alcohol and good company could possibly allow. 

(It's all okay, because she's celibate, and he's gay. Nothing wrong with enjoying a beautiful, clever, fascinating man.)

They are seated across from each other and throughout the meal their eyes meet again, often, like they are exchanging bits and pieces of conversation. When Sam and Renly rope Gilly into their disagreement, it leaves Jon and Sansa out of the conversation, and, out of politeness, she turns back to him. His face is still slightly flushed from laughing at Renly, and he is hiding a grin behind his fingers. 

Their eyes meet, and he looks away, turning his head sharply like he's looking away from a light that is too bright, and he toys with a bit of the tablecloth. 

"Do you think he was bisexual?" she asks Jon merrily. Jon looks up again. 

"Dunno," he laughs, glancing at Renly and laughing again, with generous exasperation, shaking his head slightly. "Do you?"

Something in her hitches at the depth of that question.

 _I mean, what would happen if you found out this guy wasn't gay?_ Arya had asked. _What if he were bi?_

"Never thought about it," she admits, but again she has that odd sense of treading too close to some broad chasm, so she finishes off her drink and changes the subject. 

Later, after supper, they all decide to go out and sit in the gardens, where Sam has a fire pit going. They bring the slightly scratchy tartan blankets stored in the office with them, wrapping themselves up and sitting together, still in that giddy, heady place just between tipsy and drunk. 

"So, how's that man?" Renly asks Sansa. He's mindlessly weaving a flower crown from the unseasonal roses he's plucked from the nearest bush, snapping off the thorns artfully, in spite of his inebriation. "The wet one. The moist one."

"Not that word," Gilly groans from his other side. "You know I hate that word."

"Moist," Renly enunciates clearly, grinning. "Damp. Slick. Moist," he adds loudly over Gilly's groans. "Seriously, though."

"I ran into him today in the village," Sansa says, toying with her coupe. She holds it up before the fire to watch the flames glow through the rosy glass. It makes her think of the red glass in the Septs, of incense and smoke, of hymns and weddings.

Maybe if she weren't tipsy, she might have pretended she didn't know who Renly meant; maybe if she weren't tipsy, she wouldn't say what she says next. "I hope I never see him again. I've decided I'll be single forever," she proclaims. 

Renly bursts into laughter; even Jon, beside her, snorts into his own glass. "What?" she asks indignantly. 

"Adorable, like I said," Renly wheezes. "Oh my god, you're the cutest. Stomping around Winterfell in your little pink coat, being chased by men... ugh, I want to, like, watch a TV show about you and your misadventures. You can solve crimes, or something, and wear cute outfits and just be your adorable self. There can be a whole season-long arc where you decide to be single and your hot partner in crime slowly romances you. I would watch the hell out of that." 

Sansa glances at Jon, and is shocked to find he's still grinning, shaking his head. 

"Not you too," she observes, because she is still secretly delighted by the warmth forming between her and Jon, and it almost feels like they're friends. Jon glances at her, biting his lip like he's trying not to laugh. "This is—this is my liberation," she says indignantly, "and you're both laughing at me." 

"This is not liberation; this is you having a shitty ex," Jon mutters, setting his glass down and reaching to pick up a poker to prod at the fire-pit. Sansa cannot help but notice that Renly is watching the movement with unexpected alertness for a man who has consumed as many peach apertifs as he has. The fire roars up, sending sparks everywhere. 

"Jon knows something about shitty exes," Renly says at last, leaning conspiratorially toward Sansa. "His ex-girlfriend? Ygritte? Total fucking psycho. One of these days, we'll get him a nice girl. He likes redheads, on a wildly unrelated note." Renly drains his glass as Sansa stares. "What?" 

She can't even process the aside about redheads. _What would you do if you found out he weren't gay?_

"I—I'm sorry," Sansa blurts, before she can consider her words, "I thought you two—I mean, I just assumed you and Jon—I didn't know he had an ex-girlfriend, I guess, is what I mean."

The three of them fall silent as Sansa's face flames, and then Renly bursts into laughter, attracting Sam and Gilly's attention. Sansa covers her face and glances at Jon between her fingers, who looks thunderstruck. 

"Oh my _god_ ," Renly gasps, clutching his side, "you thought—wait, seriously? Oh my god, you thought Jon was gay—that is amazing—"

"Gay?" Sam calls across the fire pit, looking uncertain. "But Jon doesn't like anyone; I told Gilly you were asexual, Jon. Didn't I, Gilly, and you disagreed and said he was just shy."

"Did not know everyone's been discussing my sexuality," Jon grits out tersely, face flushing, as he jabs the fire with some spite. There is something about how his voice curls around the word, _sexuality_ , that makes it sound dirty, private, lovely. 

( _Affair, affair, affair...)_

"—we wouldn't _have_ him! He's far too rude, and not in a fun, sexy way like I am," Renly is continuing, breathless with laughter. "Sansy, you are a gift that keeps on giving. Oh my god, that can be another part of your slow-burn romance with your crime-solving partner. He has a hot friend—like me—and you assume all season long..." 

Renly dissolves into laughter again; Gilly is sniggering into her blanket and Sam looks uncertain and uncomfortable, like he doesn't think laughter is appropriate but doesn't want to make anyone else uncomfortable; Jon is still stabbing the fire. 

"Sorry," she says quietly. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. I just—you and Renly seem so close—" 

"It's fine," Jon mutters, but there's a swooping, surging feeling inside of her; she is rising just like the sparks from the fire. She feels something brush the top of her head, and she realises Renly has tossed the finished rose crown onto her head. 

"Hm. Maybe gilding the lily a bit, is it?" he wonders, studying Sansa critically. 

"What?" Gilly bursts out, uncharacteristically loud thanks to the alcohol. "Is that, like, sexual, or—"

"No, it's a thing! People say it!" Renly insists, laughing giddily with Gilly. "You ought to be the queen of love and beauty next time, Sansa. Ooh, we can do a whole bit about it. You can be the lost princess of Winterfell and Jon can be Sir Jon the Dragon. That would literally rake in the cash..." 

Sansa reaches up to touch the flower crown, and to her surprise, Jon reaches up faster than her. His fingers brush her hair. 

"It was falling off," he explains, retracting his hand quickly. "You know, some stories name the lost princess—"

"—Sansa," she finishes for him. "I know. My dad named me for her. I think that's why I was doomed to study her," she explains ruefully. "My dad's a sort of...very stern man. A man's man, if you will," she continues, "but he loves all the old northern tales. He named me for her." 

Jon is looking down again, and she feels like she is balancing on something precarious, so she keeps talking, because she doesn't know what else to do. He's not gay. All this time, he hasn't been gay. And he and Renly haven't been an item. Everything, every interaction between them, every point of contact, every glance, must now be reframed. "Um, have you got any special story behind your name?" 

"Dunno." Jon pokes the fire again. A coal tips out and onto the slate, and they each watch it glow in the indigo darkness. "I never knew my mum and dad." 

"Just like Sir Jon the Dragon," Sansa observes, pulling the tartan blanket tighter. Something about that stray, glowing coal makes her uneasy. _The two must never meet,_ she thinks again, and she touches the velvety surface of a rose on her crown. Jon clears his throat. 

"Yeah, just like him," he agrees quietly. 

"Okay, enough playing with fire," Renly interrupts, kicking the coal away. "You're like, stressing me out majorly. I have to worry about enough of your injuries on a daily basis without worrying about you burning to death." He shoots Sansa a roguish grin, then looks to Jon. "Babe," he adds adoringly, but Jon only rolls his eyes. 

And then Sam and Gilly are yawning that it's late, and Renly is complaining about how he needs to get up early, and, somehow, before Sansa can process what's happening, she and Jon are alone in the garden. 

"That was lovely," she says, just to break the silence, as Jon puts out the fire pit. It seems so abrupt that they are alone, and it's almost like it was planned. She takes off the flower crown, studying the creamy, perfect roses. "These are peach coloured, too. Those peach cocktails were delicious." She is aware that she's rambling, but her fingers feel thick and clumsy, and it is very different to be alone with Jon now that she knows he's not gay. The very air seems to buzz with the electricity of potential, or maybe she's just more inebriated than she realised. "Those peaches must be beautiful. Exactly ripe." 

Jon steps away from the fire pit, wiping his palms on his jeans. 

"You should see the tree," he says, nodding toward the greenhouse, once called the glass gardens. They are across the lawn, and the glass reflects the stars. In spite of the day's earlier rain, the night is clear and crisp, the sort of night Sansa loves best. 

"Oh, it's in there?" 

Sansa pulls the tartan around her shoulders tighter. She sees Jon biting his lip. 

"I've got the key," he suddenly remarks offhandedly. "If you wanted to see it." 

Sansa looks at him in surprise. Her heart is pounding, and she suddenly forgets the cold. It's too dark to read Jon clearly, but she can tell he's still biting his lip. 

"Alright," she says at last. 

She follows Jon across the grass and watches him fish in his pocket for the key to the glass gardens. The door is old, and heavy; it unlocks and swings open with a groan, and then they're in the humid warmth of the greenhouse. Little burned-out fairy lights trail overhead, the only light, though they are so low-power and nearly-dead that they look more like faded, silvery remains of stars. 

"There was a wedding here in the summer," Jon explains, closing the door behind her and pointing out the fairy lights. She is uncomfortably aware of how close they are, of how humid it is, of how dark it is. The air is fragrant and sweet, nothing like it should be in autumn. She thinks she could get drunk off this heady air and the closeness of Jon alone.

"It's a lovely place for a wedding," she says, following Jon along a winding path, through rows of plants. It's mostly herbs and vegetables, giving the air a botanical edge, but at the very end—

—There it is. The peach tree stands alone, enormous and gnarled, a thing belonging to other lands. Peaches hang from its boughs like perfect rosy suns. Jon walks up to the tree and reaches up, lovely strong hand gripping the peach and snapping it from the bough, leaves rustling. He hands it to her, their fingers brushing. Sansa takes it, feeling unsteady and swooping, as hot and crackling as a bonfire. 

"I wonder if it's in the soil," she muses, just for something to say. "The thing causing this natural phenomenon, I mean."

She admires the peach; it is perfect. It is a perfect, alien impossibility, that a peach can grow so perfectly so far north. She looks up and meets Jon's eyes. He shoves his hands in his pockets, but this time he doesn't look away. 

It gives her the courage that she needs. "I was thinking we could work together," she continues. "And study this. Study the stories, study the...magic." 

Jon looks down. Her heart is pounding, like she's asked him something else, something much more private, more personal. _Affair,_ she thinks reluctantly. When he looks up— 

—There's a burst of light; Sansa sees that bonfire; she sees a ribbon around two hands; she smells hay and feels lips against the shell of her ear; she sees Jon biting into a peach, juice running down his wrist; all the hairs raise along her skin; she hears, _affair_ , and then she hears, _the two must never meet_. 

She steps back, shaken, but when she opens her eyes, they are surrounded by glittering, pulsing light. 

The fairy lights have come back, and their light burns in waves, oscillating and flickering above them, filling the greenhouse with starlight before abruptly going out, leaving them in darkness again. 

They both let out shaking breaths of shock. 

"Yeah," Jon says, "I think we should." 

**Past**

"I am hers," Jon says, "and she is mine." 

His words mirror Sansa's. The ribbon, cool silk, binds their wrists together. The air smells like incense; the light around them is rosy through the red glass of the Sept. 

They have not used their real names, and, of course, they are very, very far from home. But when Sansa turns to her new husband, to the man she has promised her life to, she realises she has never felt more like herself. Princess Sansa is blown away by the incense and the light; all that's left is all that she is, and it is all for Jon. 

Her hair is wild from months of being on the run, and Jon's grown too lean, but he has never looked more gallant, more lovely, to her, and he looks at her now like she is the loveliest thing he's ever seen. 

_I am his_ , she thinks, _and he is mine_. She pictures honeysuckle and hazel twisting together, reaching forever for each other, and when Jon leans to kiss her freely—at last, at last—she closes her eyes and kisses him back. 


	10. static shock season

**Past**

"It's not much of a home," Jon admits, helping Sansa over a fallen log that is slippery with moss. They have entered a grove, at the center of which sits an enormous tree. Its barren boughs hang low over the frost-covered ground, gnarled and gloomy, but Sansa cannot help but feel that she has come home. She is not afraid of these lonely woods, naked and raw in the winter. "But we'll be safe here, for the night at least," Jon promises. 

Jon has built a shelter against the tree, using the low-hanging boughs, and sticks, and blankets. It is no marriage bed, at least not in the usual sense. If he were a prince and they were marrying in a castle, there would be a four-poster bed piled with pillows and draped in silks. Ladies-in-waiting would bathe her and dress her in gauzy silks, and dab her with perfume, and brush her hair until it shone. She would walk with the women of the castle in a procession, and Jon with the men, to their marriage bed. There would be candles, singing, ceremony. The next morning the bedding would be examined for proof of her purity, proof of their consummation. 

There will be no singing tonight, no candles and no ceremony. She should miss it, but she finds she does not, to her own surprise. She is grateful for the lack of ceremony, which takes all the wild romance out of this moment. This night is for her and Jon only; there is no room for anyone else.

Beneath the boughs and blankets it is pitch dark, and Sansa regards this darkness with a quiver in her belly—not of fear, but something else.

In the moonlight, Jon turns to look at her, breath misting in the air. They have shared a bed for months now—be it in dirt, in hay, or in a real bed—but their only contact at these times has been the lightest whisper of touch as he pulls her close, as he holds her in the warmth of his arms.

Tonight that will change.

Lying in her bed in Winterfell, hidden away in her tower, she used to wonder if she would ever be kissed, and, if so, if she would know what to do. The act seemed so mysterious, so complicated. Then that night he kissed her she learned that while a kiss is indeed a mysterious and complicated thing, she somehow knew what to do that night. 

And somehow, now, tonight, she knows just what she wants to do. 

"It's perfect," she promises him. Jon exhales and closes his eyes, shaking his head. "What?"

"I have spent so many years not allowing myself to think of this," he confesses in a low, tight voice. 

Sansa imagines him in his quarters in Winterfell, lying in bed at night and tossing and turning, refusing to give into his thoughts. And she feels a weird sort of impatience building. All of those years of fine control, and now they don't have to pretend anymore. So why is Jon delaying it now? They are married, they are free. 

She reaches up, touches his jaw, and Jon closes his eyes, tilting his face toward her hand and kissing her palm. His hand covers hers. At first the touch is light, but then he is pulling her hand away with a fierce grip, leading her to their makeshift marriage bed under the tree, and her heart is pounding with a new sort of happiness: the happiness of knowing your joy is not momentary. 

Sansa lays down on the furs and blankets before Jon, as he lets the cloak fall and cover the opening. They are in darkness, but it is sweet and warm, and makes Jon's touch spark along her skin even more. 

"Now you can think of it as much as you want," she breathes, because suddenly she is a little nervous, and feels like she ought to say something. She feels Jon laugh against her skin as he guides her back, brushing his lips against her neck. 

"I don't plan to think much at all," he says against her skin, and she grips his shoulders as something warm coils in the very pit of her belly. Something warm, something secret, something lovely.

And it is just like kissing him: she is helpless, wild, longing, joyful. In that sweet darkness he pulls her closer than he ever has, and she lets herself feel all of it. She does not worry about her magic; she does not worry about the rest of the world. For the first time in months, she finds that she cannot hold onto her fears. They are beyond her reach. 

_We must never part_ , she thinks. _Not ever._ Because there is a bone-deep sense of completion: of roots taking hold, of flowers blooming at last in the warm spring air. Jon is the soil for her roots, the spring air for her bloom. 

In other words, Jon is everything. Jon is life.

**Present**

"Hmm. No, not this one, either." 

Jon's cottage has been transformed in the span of one week: books are stacked everywhere; the walls are covered with notes and references. The little table is piled high with more books, whose edges flap and flutter with page flags, marking possible references. 

Sansa looks up. Jon is standing by the stack of books that Sam has given them, paging through one as he paces before the hearth, which glows with dying embers. 

(One new thing she has learned about Jon in this week: he wears his glasses when he's truly weary, and he's a little embarrassed about them.) 

( _Oh, no,_ something in her heart says, as she watches him set the book down and take off his glasses to rub his itching eyes.) 

"You want to stop for the night?" Sansa suggests, marking the page of the book she's been scanning. 

"No," Jon says, putting his glasses back on. "We haven't accomplished anything today. I'll never be able to sleep."

"Same," Sansa admits, relieved he is as obsessed as she is. Her mobile vibrates with the usual nightly text from Arya, instructing her to GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP, and Sansa turns the mobile over so she can't see its screen. Her sister sniffs out lies or withheld truths like a bloodhound, and Sansa is not ready to inform Arya of what she has learned about Jon. 

(The not-gay thing, not the glasses thing. Though she does feel an inexplicable urge to discuss how adorable he looks in glasses, too. She feels like she could give a soliloquy on it.)

(Oh, fuck.)

"Coffee?" Jon asks, glancing at her, as he makes his way to the kitchen counter. He's got an old-fashioned press, but she's learned he makes good coffee. He gets the beans from Hot Pie, who always sends him a sample of the latest interesting blends.

(She is also learning that, in spite of Jon's crabbiness and generally unsocial behavior, he has many friends who adore him. It sort of makes her feel better, knowing she's not the only one who feels so powerfully drawn to him.)

"That is probably necessary," she admits, and she gets up to help. She gets out two mismatched mugs, both from the museum's gift shop, their designs faded and veined with white from the mug showing through. The kitchen area's tiny, and her elbow brushes Jon's, and they both leap back at a shock. "Static shock season already!" Sansa blusters, avoiding Jon's eyes. 

"Right," Jon says, not looking at her either.

Soon the cottage is filled with the scent of coffee that has a trace of lavender in it ("glad I've got a whole bag of this, because I hate it," Jon mutters sarcastically after one sip, making Sansa laugh, but he drinks it anyway, desperate for the caffeine), and Jon and Sansa stand side-by-side before the primary wall of notes. 

"So what we know, for certain, is that there were no mentions of this magic before the era of Sir Jon the Dragon," Jon says at last, peering at their timeline. 

"I think we can conclude that," Sansa agrees, glancing at the many stacks of books around them, which offer their proof. "And I think it's clear that King Eddard had two daughters." She has spent her career arguing this point, and now she is more certain than ever.

Jon nods. 

"There are too many references; our argument's made," he agrees. "And she would be a contemporary of Sir Jon's. The question is, did something unrelated happen to that princess, and her going missing from history is just a coincidence? Or is it related to this explosion of stories?" 

"I think she must have had some sort of illness," Sansa says, shaking her head. "There are a number of things that point to her having been kept in that tower on her own. The one with the garden, I mean. Why else would they keep her apart? There had to be something wrong, to warrant the solitary confinement." 

The memory of that first morning, of the rose, the shock, Jon's face, comes back in a rush, but she ignores it and continues on. "I think she must have been ill, or fragile, or mad, and... and perhaps," she continues carefully, "blamed for the strange climate phenomena. I've always had a hunch she was connected to the Druid of the Wolfswood, and now it makes even more sense to me. They would have called her witch and blamed her for the strange things happening around them." 

Jon finishes his coffee and crosses his arms, peering at her as he chews on her words.

It's always unusual for a male academic to take her seriously, especially when she is talking about something as feminine and unexciting to them as a lost, ill princess. Sansa still has not grown used to how Jon takes her points seriously, but she is trying to avoid showing it, trying to seem unfazed and confident, so she clears her throat and looks back at their notes, searching until she finds the reference she was looking for. "She would have been older than her sister, so she would have been the most important princess. The most important match. A natural match," she continues, "for Joffrey Baratheon. But he married a lady from the Reach, and many attribute that lack of bond between north and south for what happened later, when Daenerys the Conqueror came to Westeros and ripped it apart." 

"So you think the Northerners would have been angry with her," Jon interprets. 

"Yes. Not just angry—enraged. Think about it. Marriage matches were everything; they were how kingdoms survived, prevented wars, forged alliances... If King Eddard really had an older daughter, but she was too fragile to marry Prince Joffrey, and at the same time the northerners were seeing evidence of what they thought of as witchcraft—our lost princess would have been an easy scapegoat for them." 

Buoyed by Jon's careful listening, Sansa continues, a little breathless. "And there's more. I found some stories of three princes who visited Winterfell around the same time."

"Sounds a little like a marriage might've been brokered," Jon concludes, and Sansa nods. 

"Exactly. Which might've been an insult to the Baratheons, leading them to marry Prince Joffrey to someone else, thus cheating the Northerners out of the safety of a north-south marriage alliance." 

They each exhale and stare at their wall of evidence. 

"Alright, it's a fair theory," Jon says after a while. "But we need more. All we really know is that there was another daughter, that she didn't marry Joffrey Baratheon, and she might've lived in that tower." 

They settle back into work for a few more hours, until dawn is only an hour away. Sansa's eyes feel puffy, and so much coffee on an empty stomach has made her feel ill. But as she leaves Jon's cottage—still clad in his windbreaker, which she has yet to return to him, as he always finds a reason she should keep it _just one more day_ —she cannot help but walk with brisk, happy strides.

(Is she happy because she is doing the work, at last, that she has always wanted to do?)

(Is she happy because working with Jon, who listens with respect and takes an interest in her lines of inquiry, is so rewarding?)

(Or is she happy for some other reason...?)

When Sansa gets back to her rooms, she checks her mobile, which she has not looked at all night, not since Arya's nightly reminder to sleep. Willas has sent his usual texts, and, on a strange whim, Sansa blocks his number. 

She sets her mobile down and stares out the window, strangely lightheaded and exhilarated, at the misty unfurling dawn. Her skin prickles like it senses lightning nearby, and she realises that this is what power feels like. Not just any power—her power. Her strength. This is what it feels like to have mastery of your own life. She is no longer going to allow herself to be at the mercy of Willas and simply wait for him to fade out of her own life. She is no longer going to put up with the text messages, ignoring them with eyes scrunched shut and fingers crossed. 

And the next time he shows up, she is not going to be polite. She is not going to hope he interprets her words correctly. She is going to leave him no choice but to give up and go back home without her. 


	11. secret bride

**Past**

Sansa had thought that after everything that has passed between her and Jon—the stories, the months on the run, the secret marriage, ...what they do at night—that she knew Jon as well as she knew herself. But what she realises as she and Jon begin to build their life together is that he is like the Wolfswood they have been living in: she may never fully know him. He changes with the seasons, he evolves and grows, he has shadows cast within him that render him obscure—and the thing is, she does too. 

They battle; they duel. And these are not the sweet spars that once stalked them in the halls of her father's castle, but real fights, where they say things they do not mean, and are bitter and silent with each other for a day or more afterward. They fight about silly things, like where to store firewood, or whether the roof needs re-thatching—and about bigger things, too, like the dreams that Jon has that make him sit up, gasping, in the night, which he flatly refuses to discuss with her. 

Their quiet, hidden life means that they rely on each other for everything: for love, for life, for amusement, for a salve for those moods that sometimes grip us all, inexplicable and transient but so very real. 

The solicitousness with which they treated each other in the beginning—back when everything was as sweet and delicate between them as peach skin—dissipates, and Sansa worries that they are slowly building a wall between them, stone by stone, of bitterness and regret. Someday, they will not be able to reach each other.

She misses her family so desperately that it makes her eyes burn and, in the wrong mood, can make the flowers die around her—and sometimes she looks at Jon and hates him for it. She did not know she could hate, and like a child with a new toy she wields it with irresponsible fervor. Likewise, there are times where she can sense that Jon is avoiding looking at her, where he is remembering his life as a knight with something like longing, where he cannot stand to see her for his profound resentment of her. 

All summer they are cool toward each other, filling their days with ways of avoiding each other, and Sansa is struck by how badly she wishes she could speak to her mother. Of course, if she could speak to her mother, she would not be in this situation—she would be married, not to Jon, but instead to someone else. Jon would simply be a shadowy figure in the background of her life. 

She whiles away the buzzing summer days contemplating this thought, a thought that is at first so terrible that she cannot bring herself to look directly at it—but slowly she finds herself approaching it.

On the day that once marked the summer harvest when they were tied to society, the very end of summer, Sansa slips out in the morning, and Jon mentions something about slipping into town. Even though she knows she should be harvesting their meager crops, she finds herself drowsily lying in the tall grasses in a clearing of the Wolfswood instead, staring up at the blue sky and dreamily weaving crowns of flowers from the wildflowers around her. The flowers wither at her touch as she finds herself picturing another lifetime, one in which Jon cannot belong to her, wondering if she only ever wanted him because he was forbidden. He is so brooding, so moody, and so distant, sometimes. He is so unreachable. He hardly ever says what's on his mind, and she knows him just well enough to know that he's always got something on his mind. 

The setting sun is drenching everything in passionate peach when she hears a rustling in the tall grass, and when she sits up, she sees Jon at the clearing's edge. Her husband is approaching her. He's shed his cloak and his skin is a little flushed from the heat, and there's a look of strange resolve about him—something in the set of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. He has made his mind up about something—but what? He is deep as a lake and she cannot see into his depths, she never can, and she feels another swell of frustration. 

He comes to stand before her, and she props herself up, realising she is surrounded by tiny flower crowns and he is probably cross with her for wasting a good day for harvesting. His shadow passes over her as he looks down at her, and she boldly meets his eyes. Just as he has changed, she has, too—she is no longer that sweet meek girl, shyly daring to meet his eyes. Now she dares him to raise his voice, to break their vow of cool silence so that he can tear into her for wasting time. _Do it,_ she thinks, watching his grey eyes rove over her features. 

But to her surprise, he does not reprimand her. Jon simply drops down into the grass at her feet, and absently picks up one of her flower crowns. He studies it, his eyes glimmering with something unfamiliar, and as always, she has the sense of lingering at the edge of a shadowy forest, peering into his depths, guessing at the vague shapes she can see and wondering if they are friend or foe, strange beast or sweet flora. 

"I suppose I've been lazy today," she admits, brushing little flowers and leaves off of her plain dress. 

(Oh, and that is another thing. She is tired of these plain dresses, of having hands rough and calloused from work, of never having water that is hot enough for a proper bath. She never feels lovely anymore. She used to turn her head and feel the heavy swish of her shining copper hair and know, with a shameful vanity, that Jon's eyes followed the movement.) 

Jon meets her eyes, pretty lips curving into something hinting at a genuine smile, and he looks down again. 

"It doesn't matter," he says gently, shaking his head, and it acts as a salve. Some tiny shoot of hope unfurls in her. 

They sit in the quiet afternoon, the world buzzing and humming with life around them, so very far away from all that they have both known all of their lives, with nothing but the land and each other to live on. 

"How was town?" she tries cautiously, conscious of the little green hope in her, and watches little green shoots unfurl all around her, watches Jon watching them. 

There is a new awareness between them, an unspoken acknowledgment that they have been unkind to each other for months, though they are two people that did not realise they knew how to be unkind. Jon does not look up, but she sees his thumb brush one of the little green shoots so gently, as though he is touching her.

And then he looks up at last. He has made some decision—but what? Her heart begins to pound. 

"Sansa," he begins, "the Targaryens are going to invade. It's finally happening. There's going to be a war, at least in the South—maybe here in the North, too." 

At first she thinks he means to spare her feelings, that he fears she will be afraid, and then she realises what this really is: he is ashamed. He is in agony. He has lived his whole life with the assumption that he will defend the North from invaders, that he will protect the North with his life, and while the knights and soldiers that he loves and respects will prepare to battle the Targaryen forces, he will sit here, in exile, doing nothing but farming and repairing a thatched roof, suffering little more than pangs of hunger and occasional sleepless nights. 

They regard each other and for a flash she can see to the end of his depths—he is Sir Jon, through and through, and to not be Sir Jon right now is killing him. Has been killing him, for months, as these rumors have burgeoned and grown. How did she not see the guilt, before? Why did it look like resentment to her? 

"Oh, Jon," she whispers, and she leans forward and takes his face in her hands and kisses him. She cannot recall the last time they kissed, but everything in her comes back to life again, and she thinks, no, there could never be any other man; she could never live a life properly without him. Because in these last months, they have been living a life apart, if not in body but then in mind, and she has been slowly withering. He kisses her back, hungrily, desperately, lays her back into the grass among the flower crowns she has woven and the green leaves of her hope, traces her features with a tender hand at first, then grips her with a passionate, desperate one. 

For the first time in months they are together again, and she can feel all of it in his touch: his anguish at having shirked his duty as a knight of Winterfell; how much he has missed her; his worries over how they will survive; his fears for what the Targaryens will do; his regret for being so distant with her. They find their way back to each other as dusk settles over the land around them, and she thinks of how the Wolfswood is ever-changing around them—in seasons, in light—yet its secret paths are always the same, and no matter what the forest looks like around her, she can always find her way back to their tree, and the cottage they have built around it. 

Afterwards, they lay entwined in the grasses together, the night balmy and sweet around them, looking up at the indigo sky that is frosted and lacy with constellations. 

"What else did you learn?" she asks, curling into his chest and inhaling his scent. She feels his fingers weave through her hair absently, feels his heart beat, quiet and even and vital, beneath her ear. 

"They're looking for someone," Jon says, his voice drowsy and thick with sleep. He is always so sweet and sleepy after they lay together; she forgot how tightly he likes to hold her, how he does not let her go. "They say that Daenerys the Conqueror is looking for a Targaryen prince in the North." 

"What?" she cannot help but laugh, and she looks up at Jon. The childish part of her is delighted at the idea of a secret prince—it is such a romantic thought! How handsome he must be, how bewitched and magical he must be—but the more rational part of her, the part that has learned to make clothes from old sacks and harvest radishes and build fires, is amused by the silliness of such a concept. Jon's eyes are closed, and she watches the lids flutter as he draws in a deep, drowsy breath. 

"Aye, his name is Aegon, and he is her nephew and will be her lover," he explains, shifting and pulling her closer. The hand that is tangled in her hair begins to still. "They will sit on the Iron Throne and rule the seven kingdoms." 

He jests, but there is a very real threat behind his words. _Targaryen,_ she thinks, tracing Jon's features, and something in her squirms with fear. She looks around their little clearing. So near is their cottage, the life they have built together. They are so far from everything, but what if they are not far enough? And what if the southern armies cannot stop Daenerys the Conqueror—what if she comes north? What of her family, what of her people? Now she begins to feel some of Jon's anguish in earnest; what if she lives while her family dies? 

No. She clings tightly to Jon, and scrunches her eyes shut. Daenerys the Conqueror will never make it to the North; her family will be safe. There is no reason to fear for all of the people that she loves so very deeply. She feels Jon's lips graze her forehead and she relaxes into him. 

"I missed you," she admits, and Jon's eyes flutter open again. This time they are dark with that longing, dark as the woods around them, and his mouth curves into that secret smile that belongs only to her. "You've been so distant, don't leave me like that again," she pleads desperately as he turns over, and his weight on her is soothing, possessive, longing. 

"I'm yours," he breathes, and the words are so sweet, but then his voice deepens, and she thinks of quiet fires burning when he speaks again, "and you are mine." 

**Present**

"You've gotta say something." Renly helps Jon out of his helmet, and Jon takes in a deep breath of relief. The helmet is claustrophobic and heavy, and the metallic smell of it, while not unpleasant, gets old fast. 

Unfortunately, now he can't credibly avoid Renly's eyes. Renly angles his head, chasing eye contact, and Jon steps back. "Seriously. This is getting pathetic. We had it _all set up for you_ that night of the dinner party, and what do you do the minute you're alone with her? You explore botany."

He shakes his head, running a rag over the helmet as he turns to set it on its shelf. "Even Tarly thinks you need to make your move soon, you know, and when Samwell Tarly is impatient, you know it's bad." When Renly continues, his voice is offhand, casual. "Plus, I saw that wet blanket guy at the joust again today." 

"You saw Willas?" Jon blurts in surprise. 

It's been a few days since he last saw Sansa. Their schedules haven't overlapped as much, and she's been toiling away in her rooms, obsessively researching. 

Renly glances back at Jon over his shoulder, fixing Jon with a piercing look. 

"Yeah, I did. Sansy's still adamant that she doesn't want to get back together with him, but that doesn't mean there aren't any other men in the world." Renly pauses. "You don't have infinite time." 

_Don't I know it_. Jon is just wondering how he can tactfully end this conversation when Renly's mobile starts chirping, and Renly rolls his eyes. "Ugh, sit tight, I'll be right back. Probably just one of my many lovers," he adds with a flourish and a bit of cynicism, and he takes the call in the next room, leaving Jon standing in his armor, sweating slightly. Today was another jousting event, but the weather's going to turn soon, and it'll be too rainy to manage it on a regular basis. Jon looked for Sansa in the stands, but she didn't come today. Of course, it's not like she has to, or even should. 

_You don't have infinite time._

Is Willas still here? Jon stifles a burst of rage and before he can think too hard on what he's doing or why he's doing it, he finds himself leaving the armory and entering the dusky courtyard. He glances up at the windows that he knows belong to Sansa's rooms, but they are dark, and he doesn't see any dim light of computer screens. 

"Sir Jon!" Gilly greets, leaving the scholar's keep, weighed down with folders. She smiles at his half-armored state. 

"Have you seen Sansa?" he asks. Gilly gets a gleam in her eye that he does not like, but he ignores it. "Renly mentioned her ex-boyfriend was here again today."

The gleam disappears instantly, and now Gilly looks worried... and angry. 

"Really? I told the employees to look out for him, and none of them said anything to me," she says, looking around as though expecting Willas to pop out from the shadows. "Well, I saw Sansa heading towards the broken tower with the garden next to it." She shrugs. "Try there?" 

Jon hears Renly calling after him, but he keeps walking toward the broken tower, ignoring him, because there is a part of him that feels foolish. Willas is not violent; Jon cannot explain why he is certain of this, but he just knows it. And it's not as though Sansa cannot handle herself. She's a grown woman. She's probably sitting in the garden, thinking, and has probably told Willas off, and Jon will feel foolish when he charges up to her, half-clad in armor, ready to... what? Fight Willas? 

(He is being ridiculous.) 

(He knows this.)

And yet... 

(You don't have infinite time.) 

(Why is his heart pounding?) 

Jon rounds the corner, walks past the crumbling stone arches, and there in the dusk, Sansa stands alone. The sun is setting on the garden, and her hair briefly looks like flame, and he halts, ready to quietly turn and go—but, too late. She flinches and turns, looks back at him over her shoulder, takes in his armor and his hair still damp from sweat and the fact that he has half-run to her. 

Through the stone arches they regard each other for one burning moment. Excuses and explanations bubble up, but then she offers a shy smile and a wave, and he hears her laughter ringing in the garden like bells. 

"Sorry, I think my sleep deprivation has officially gone too far. I thought I was seeing things," she calls to him, turning to approach him as she pulls her windbreaker—his windbreaker; she is still wearing his windbreaker even though she's got a jacket of her own—tighter round her form, against the encroaching chill. "You look so much like a knight in shining armor!" 

* * *

Sansa recovers quickly, but her heart is still pounding. Jon is standing beneath the arches which are dotted with roses, out of breath and flushed like he's been running. As she approaches she can see he's wearing trainers, though, and part of his armor's been removed. That brief, disorienting vision of a knight seeking his princess is dashed, at least partly. "Is everything alright?" she ventures, because he's not speaking, just looking at her like he's seen a ghost. 

"I, um," he begins eloquently, looking away and running a hand over his hair, which is free of its man-bun and clings to his jaw and neck. "Renly mentioned your ex-boyfriend came today, and I just—" 

The rest of his sentence drops like stone between them as their eyes meet.

There is an uncomfortable awareness between them now. Jon licks his lips as he studies her. They are balancing on delicate things, each treading so carefully, like they're keeping a secret. 

(She thinks of peach trees lit up with stars; she thinks of sparks between them; she thinks of a barren forest brought back to life.) 

"You came running," she says slowly, "because you thought my ex-boyfriend was here." 

Jon's gaze slides away from her, and she wonders if he's about to pull away again, like he always does. 

But then he looks at her again, and his gaze is almost too direct. It scalds her, or is she already simply burning? 

"Yeah," he says softly. "I did." 

"Well," she begins, "he's not here." She gestures to the garden around them, growing lavender in the dusk. "It's just us." 

She watches a transformation in Jon; it is like watching something bud and blossom in haste. He lets out a slow breath, as though he's decided something; he bites his lip. He's not speaking, though, and the silence is agonizing. Her heart is pounding again, so loud that she feels like she is in the middle of war drums, and she feels like she is being caught doing something dangerous, something forbidden. "You know," she begins desperately, because he's just looking at her and not saying anything, and she fears that she is wearing her heart on her sleeve and he can see all of her desires, so she reaches up to the arch and plucks one of the roses, "I learned today that this cultivar of rose is called—"

"—secret bride," he finishes for her. "It's called 'secret bride.'" 

Her mouth goes dry at the way he is looking at her now; his eyes are almost black. And she is tired of waiting, tired of not having mastery over her own life, and she has never wanted anyone so much as she wants this crabby docent in shining armor. His lips part as his gaze briefly lingers on her mouth, and she steps toward him, suddenly certain that he is thinking the very same thing that she is. 

It has never happened like this; she has never known true passion. Everything in her is alive as she reaches for him, and he is reaching for her, and she closes her eyes as she tilts her head—

—his forehead merely brushes hers, and he steps back as she opens her eyes. 

He's backing away from her. 

"Jon?" she stammers, and he shakes his head. 

"I can't—we can't—I must—" 

He pauses and he stares at her, and she thinks he will embrace her again, but he only shakes his head again. "We can't," he breathes. 

"Why not?" she pleads, but he only turns from her. She watches him leave, and then she is standing alone in the garden. 


End file.
